Imagining Formulae

Inside the perpetual evening of this room
I sit, gazing at fifty-odd Physics books on the shelf.

Some of these books used to be important.

There is an interminable novel in my hands,

and a gritty, elusive one in my head.

I think I'm making notes for both.

You are a lost character in my novel;

your absence is central,

and this has a relationship with reality.

And I'm its absconding implied author;
some construct has to step in for me.

This too has something to do with reality,

some relation with how all that I make gets made.

If you were here, I would not be elsewhere like I'm now.

I would be skimming through Mechanics then,
imagining formulae as a ball tumbles down a frictionless plane..