5:1 & 2:1.

5:1

i'd be happy.
so happy.
if you were mine.

i doubt i'd touch the sky.
that's physically unreal.

i doubt that my face would turn red.
i can't drink alcohol because my liver's fucked.

i doubt that i'd smile for a whole day.
people would think i'm mad.

but what i would be would.
um.
be.
happy.

god.

happy's such a general term.
it's like how everything's "nice".
it's bland. it's an absolute.

only a sith deals with absolutes.

but let's be realistic here.

i like you.
you might.

does she? doesn't she?

the math, my friend. it's in the odds.

they look quite bad.

but i'm still here. waiting.

2:1

like she would want it.
as if.
i think not.
no amount of charm would hide the truth.
dry wit can only go so far.

what's the point in waiting when there's nothing worth waiting for?

it's all in the math. the odds.

she might. she just might.

does she? doesn't she?
do i? can i?
will we? does she?

nobody cares. except for me.

it's been days. hours. weeks.
nothing.
nada.

place your bets. something bad's going to come out of this.

who's in control now? you or the odds? both are infinte.
and both cause massive headaches and hearburn.

like too much salsa. the sauce, not the dance.

i just want to touch you.
feel your head on my shoulder.
talk to you about how crappy my day was and how much better it would've been if you were around.

close.

far.

no cigar.

the further i go, the farther you are.
the faster i go, the quicker you run.
i'm running in circles but you're standing outside the loop.

the odds.

those eyes.

still waiting.