Maybe two days from now we’ll be merry,
swaying in each other’s arms again.

Maybe in two weeks, you’ll yell again,
and I’ll be tired of playing happy pretend.

Maybe in the next two years, you will vaguely remember my face,
and I will be vainly seeking for your hand
to squeeze,
to kiss,
on the empty seat beside me.

Maybe two years ago you could have been truthful about who you are,
and I of what I want.
Maybe two months ago I should have slipped away and gone,
or maybe it should have been you.

And there, two decades from today, what’s left of you and me is just a story
for us to tell our blooming children,
who are pursuing a love of their own,
that there are dreams that just don’t come true.

But maybe, maybe, it will be a glory
that is worth fighting,
shared between the sweetness of cookies and tea,
and the crispy laughter of that fair girl who looks like you,
and the sneaky snicker of the demure boy who speaks like me,
and clings of rings, as my wrinkly fingers meet yours.

But it’s hard to think that way, when two hours ago you slammed the door.
Maybe you should have never shown your back and left me beaten to two bits.
Maybe I shouldn’t have screamed and screeched,
maybe I should have just been on my two feet
and gone on. Maybe I should have stopped being my own harbinger.

It takes two to tango, I reminded you.
It takes two to quarrel, you reprimanded me.
It takes two to minus one,
into another,
I told myself.

And this 2 am. And tomorrow. And the days after,
I will find myself lying on our bed wide awake thinking, or half asleep dreaming
of rewinding,
and fast-forwarding.
Of two bodies, who were with one soul.
Of one hug, and two separate ways to go.

February 21, 2017