Busy Until The Heat-Death Of The Sun

It’s not that she didn’t love him,
want him,
need him,
cherish him,
consider him special above all others,
think deeply of the decades they had spent together;

it’s merely that she was busy until the heat-death of the Sun.

In darkest day,
in brighest night,
she was his with utter devotion
but also,
she was busy,
so busy,
so very much to do,
until the heat death of the Sun.

Oh sure,
Helen of Troy’s face may have launched a thousand ships,
but there was no need to be drastic.

She’s ready.
She’s waiting.

She’s all his.

He only need wait

until the heat-death of the Sun.

It’s not that she didn’t love him
with a devotion
which puts molecular bonds to shame,
makes the Flying Dutchman’s curse seem like a mild disagreement
appears to fulfill the Theory of Blackbeard by converting Earth to Piracy and that doesn’t even begin to get into how important it is, but

she really,
really,

had other things to do.

Love is nice.

But there are people out there

who would rather do some writing

and get a bagel,

thank you.

They could get married, kiss, cuddle, spend the night together. And they will. They will be close, happy, together, without regret.

We just need to wait for the heat-death of the Sun.

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