When I told you I love you, you hung up on me.
The rain falls hard tonight and the lightning cracks sharply;
I fear hydroplaning and my transmission’s still acting up,
but I could’ve gotten you to Mexico.
I’m searching my memory, but I cannot recall if you’d ever said the same to me.
Somewhere beyond the storm there is a starry night,
and I keep thinking that picture of a tiny piece of sky
hiding countless stars and galaxies, invisible to the naked eye.
I didn’t hang up on you, but I think maybe I didn’t hear you right.
What are the chances that lightning like this could form life by striking a pool of dense chemicals?
What are the chances that God is on the other side of some wormhole, pulling superstrings?
What were the chances that we would hit each other when we fell away from ourselves?
Time doesn’t exist in a black hole because nothing moves at the singularity.
The time we spent together was just a fraction
of the time that we spent thinking about each other;
we hardly moved at all, but our time is gone.
Now I just need to know if there’s really a way out…