Mother always said that nothing was impossible, just improbable. But the mathematics of love tell me that our equation reaches the nadir of probabilities, so much so that it may as well be impossible. It’s kind of like living a billion lives with a billion chances—that even at the end, nothing works, nothing jiggles. The keys don’t turn, and you and I are just not meant to work.

Full of opulence and history, beneath my feet lays the great mysteries of you, of yesterday, of me and of the Tokyo streets that filled us with warmth. Territories divided, crystalline and meticulous, our shivers burst through the opaque admissions that hold each of us prisoner.

I’m not sure why it was so hard for her to understand. I lost my camera the night I met her, along with the memories that were stored in it. I gave up my memories for her, and something tangible (and a little expensive) to boot. I just wanted to know if she was worth that price.

Her theories on love reminded me a little of toy cars—to be specific, the radio controlled ones that I so loved when I was a kid. They’re small, accurate models of the real thing. They can be controlled without strings and from afar. They bring you happiness until the day you decide to grow up.

The part that primarily drove me nuts was the “honey.” If this is ending, you have no right to call me “honey.” You can call me “asshole,” “motherfucker” or “bastard,” but you sure as hell can’t call me “honey.” It’s uncalled for, and it’s damn wrong.

Ponder ponder transponder the times you’ve seen her say hello / The times lies dropped from leaves so cold, so bold / That you ate, with mayonnaise and ketchup to boot

“That’s me. The Future. Future. The one and only, although I’m pretty sure there’s one in every family. Where there is hope, there is a Future. Complete with packaging and a sticker price. I’m not for sale, though, you know. You and I, we’re just on borrowed time from each other. It’s an equal trade.”

The brick and mortar hearts that we build to surround our weakening bones that tilt—they may not crumble, but a hard heart does not feel.

With a gleeful smile on her face, “Well, yeah. Like, in the beginning they wouldn’t do it, so one day I just went over to the place and flirted with one of the managers. I guess it worked, cause the next time I called, I kind of whined in a sweet, innocent voice and promised to come and say hello next time.”