Ifs and chances

There is a joyous jolt

of certain recognition

followed by a sudden

desperate sense of loss

when you realise

the stranger

who you passed on the street

or saw in a bar

or watched depart

on a distant bound plane

could have been

the rest of your life.

Extraordinary

If I was a grand architect of design.

If I was the master of texture, colour, shape, style and beauty.

If I could mould and fashion and forge personality, intelligence, sensitivity, sensuality, generosity and strength.

If I possessed the perfect, potent power of pure magic

If I was a wild-eyed cosmic genius with a boundless, endless, limitless imagination.

If my creativity dwarfed and humbled every artist, scientist, writer, sculptor and mathematician who had ever graced the planet.

Even if I had dominion over all things

I still could never create a creature

as unique

and as extraordinary

as woman.

Lies

I tell her I am fine

That everything is good.

That my writing is going well. A thousand words a day, and not one of them sad.

That I am going out in the evenings. To the PUB in town. The noisy one with the live music and the dealers and the tarts. I know the bartender by name. We have a laugh.

I tell her I can listen to the radio without blinking back tears. I can watch movies without reliving us.

I tell her I am happy

That I’ve met a girl.

That she is pretty and petite and likes to laugh. And to please me. In lots of ways.

That she dances and sings and really cares about the planet. And that kind of stuff.

I tell her I am content

That I sleep soundly at night.

Well… most nights.

I tell her I am glad she has found someone special..

That I am delighted. Honestly. Truly.

For her.

I tell her I am glad.

I just lie

about everything.