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We broke the night reflecting on existence.
My pillow absorbed your scent, and I grew
to hate the concepts of “space” and “distance,”
for both are defined by the absence of you.

We’re like two lines or rather, two points,
parted by chance and weighing our chances,
but no matter how much we flip the coins,
the probability, dear, remains against us.

Stubborn fingers refuse to dial your number,
protecting the ear, which now, dreads silence.
I turn in my bed, -- wearied, half in slumber, --
as conscience confronts the drooping eyelids.

But, even in dreams, you are hardly nearer.
And all that is left is to sit and observe
the fleeting time in the rear view mirror
and gasp when the road makes a sudden curve.