2,920Mature

It has been
two thousand
nine hundred
and twenty
sunsets since I met you -
our eyes locked
across the walkway,
the sun threatening
to blind me,
the wind blowing my short hair
into my face,
sticking in my lipstick -
which I never really wore,
except that day,
knowing you’d be there
knowing that for a moment
your eyes would land on me
and your mind would file away
my name, my face,
along with everyone else
you’d ever met,
and knowing that I 
was rather unremarkable.

There have been two thousand
nine hundred and twenty chances
to wake up with you on my mind,
in my bed, tangled around me,
and two thousand
nine hundred
and twenty chances
for you to wake up without me
on your mind, in your bed,
tangled around you.

In the grand scheme of our lives
where one moment can squander
a hundred opportunities
before you’ve blinked,
two thousand nine hundred and
twenty days 
seem like a lot of opportunities
for other things, maybe better things -
maybe worse -
that were never taken
and I know that sometimes
we fight so much it makes me cry
even in my sleep
and sometimes I drive you
mad with frustration and expectation
and sometimes - not a lot but sometimes -
we both think about the opportunities
we’ve given up
but two thousand nine hundred
and twenty days
say we’ve got more than just
the tears and the blood and the rage
or the sweat and the lust and the
slow burn of sanity as it edges
ever-closer to the abyss.

Two thousand nine hundred
and twenty
is more than I’ve ever had
in my bank account
or in books I’ve read
or mistakes I’ve made.
But I’ve managed to keep
two thousand nine hundred and
twenty of your days
right next to mine,
and that feels like a success.

The End

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