It’s almost funny— (only almost)
     the way the universe plots,
                        schemes,

     conspires to keep us apart.

Turning simple plans into epic tales.

A storm rolls in,
     lights flicker out,
     streets close early,

     plans crumble quietly.

But we still had this—
     a race,
     a couch,

     an evening waiting just for us.

And then,
    in the stillness…
                     waiting became sleeping.

I drifted off,
  slipped into dreams,
  unaware that luck

  was already laughing somewhere behind my back.

She was almost here—
    but my eyes were closed,
    F1 raced without us,

    and the night passed quietly,
    another plan lost to chance.

We didn't get that night.
   But even in losing it,

   we gained something else—

   another shared story,
   another reason to laugh,
   another reason to try again.

Zero luck,
     but a hundred laughs,
          because somehow,
           despite it all— (fuck you, Mr Universe)

     there's always tomorrow.