So here we are,
our present now
is that unimaginable future
that terrified song writers
when they spun lyrics about
“no life at all
if I have to live without you.”
Here we are
entrenched in the sweaty,
tossing-and-turning blankets
of the nightmare
lovers reluctantly dreamed
when they dared try to imagine
ever being apart,
a possibility they wept
at the mere mention of
and vigilantly watched
to never befall them—
we are here, now.
It’s no longer a chance
we have to guard against,
but a reality,
as real as spilled hazelnut milk
on a Bokhara rug
as hard as the irony
of a bird with a broken wing.
We breathe the air
that philosophers
only warned about
but didn’t take the time
to discuss how to survive in.
I am without you,
and you are without me,
and life is supposed to go on
and they tell us
to pick up our lives
and build elsewhere.

But what about those love songs
that held those staunch convictions
and told us we might as well be dead
if we let this love die?
What about the schools of thought
that were just so sure
we would suffer unspeakable pain
if we let this great thing go to waste?
Why can’t they understand us now,
those liars,
promising us the rights
to misery
and forfeiting that right
as soon as we were
dumb enough
to deserve it