Impossible Odds

Version 2I don’t think it’s love that’s a lie, but maybe the way that we tell it. What are the odds of happiness, anyway? The American Dream seems statistically unlikely, when you think about it.

When I left you I thought it was, in a word, impossible. Impossible to have happened, impossible to live with. Even leaving halfway across the world didn’t seem quite far enough to make you Gone. What followed was a year that didn’t feel real; twelve months in someone else’s job, reminding myself that this suspended foreign reality was temporary, and that I would go home and go on with my life because there were no other choices, even if you wouldn’t be there anymore. I opened the cracked window above my head that slanted over the roof of my little blue room up in the mossy, cloudy spires of Somewhere New, and I thought about my choices. London lay in stone before me- infinite possibility still so limited by time and money and energy. By me. I hadn’t slept in months, between the best and the worst of the last year, and I couldn’t sleep then.

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The day after we said goodbye
I waited for the tears to come;
though weeks were gone, I did not cry
the birds still sang and sun still shone-
I waited to forget your face
as weeks and months did fade away,
but still my strange heart kept its pace
and beat your name with every day.
Now that the years are marching on
I think I’ll mourn you, now and then
But you are never really gone
and with my thoughts, you’re here again.
Though hours to years to lifetimes grow,
I cannot seem to let you go.