no. 4

You had called, unexpectedly, at midnight
and I had slept, unexpectedly, through the beckoning tones.
As usual, one dialed the other
and the other did not pick up the phone.
It all seems so random,
this coincidence of a moment’s motivation and a lifetime’s habit.
That such love should end
in such empty probabilities . . .
what does it mean?
The problem is precisely this
dichotomy between meaninglessness and meaning.
It means nothing
and it means everything.

I wait for you to call tonight
knowing that I will miss the call.

This entry was posted in 2012, Numbers, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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