You don’t get it.

I can’t get it right.

We don’t understand us.

Nothing of us is understandable. We are complex,

complicated, completely normal

in our abnormal ways. This is how it goes,

how life unfolds for us, for all of us, for always,

forever, ’til death us do part, our carved hearts

entwined in the bloody accident of our meeting,

of our simple act of simply being,

of the living of our ordinary lives.

Husbands and wives.

Neither knows the other, and never will, anyway.

I know you little enough to be able to say

I do not know you, too.

You will always be a mystery to me,

as I will be to you.

And this is true,

love.

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