Seven Years

Someone once told me that it takes seven years for every cell in the human body to regenerate—every seven years, you’re a whole new person.  Even through the arguments, the tears, and the New Years where we arrived as a couple but you disappeared with another at the stroke of midnight, I still wanted you.  Maybe it isn’t really you I’m in love with, it’s you seven years ago, and today you just happen to look like that person.  Maybe if we’d never met, and I met you today, we’d do it all differently.  Maybe we wouldn’t give each other a second glance.  Maybe we’d be drawn together for another seven years, but we’d wind up in the same place, apart.

I’m left with the ring in my pocket and the love in my heart.

I’d rather have you for a few more years.

-Anon.

 

jcolman @ Flickr

Musical

I want to turn the music back on, walk once more around the circle, and then shove away the kid who has been hovering over you.

I take it back. You’re not the chair, you’re not the children shoving for a spot, you’re the music, and when he hits the switch I’m left standing, trying to remember the melody.

I don’t like this game. I want to hold your hand, but the ring gets in the way.

-Anon.