I gather the pieces one by one,
Trying to make sense of what’s been done.
A scatter of moments, a line through the mess,
Looking for patterns I hesitate to guess.

I test the waters, cautious and slow,
Trying to see what the numbers show.
Sometimes it’s nothing, just noise and doubt,
Other times something wants to shout.

They tell me, “its significant, look”
But meaning can’t live in a formula or book.
I’ve seen confidence stretched too thin,
Margins of error where doubt sneaks in.

I chart the curve, smooth and wide,
But no graph explains the ache inside.
Correlations tempting, like a glance that lingers,
But I’ve learnt not to trust those eager fingers.

So I build my model, best I can,
To predict the shape of a heart or a plan.
Sometimes it fits, sometimes it fails,
We all have our outliers, personal tales.

Because behind the stats, the lines, the plot,
There’s a story the data almost forgot.
And even in errors, type I or type II,
There’s beauty in not knowing what’s true.

So here’s to the risks, the tries, the unknowns,
To loving with margins and not being alone.
I can’t promise precision, but I’ll always be real,
Statistically speaking, that’s kinda the deal.