Eighteen months is so brief
that I almost don't believe we've
been through as much as we have.
But eighteen months is so long
that I really can't believe we
haven't come further than we have.

I keep telling her to hope,
Hope. Hope.
                   Hope.
She swears there is something wrong
that her issues are so great
for eight or nine weeks' pain is too much
and if she were fine she would have
stopped caring. Or at least stopped crying.
I tell her to hope, hope.
Through her tears I am utterly sane,
normal and head over heels in control of
myself.
I remind her that in eighteen months,
if you have taught me nothing else,
you taught me to hope.
Hope. Hope.
                   Hope.
Through my tears there is something
utterly desperate about my hope.
When she leaves I go into my room,
clutch my teddy bear and cry to that song
and she tells me I am normal.
Hope, hope, I tell her. Hope.

Eighteen months have brought us only
to the moon and to Triton. We are
still waiting to land at home
and I am waiting to go back to
the moon, where you once promised
we'd be together forever.
I hope, I hope,
for eighteen more months to condense into
eight or nine weeks,
for her to see herself as reasonably normal,
for the moon to call us back,
for more hope.
Hope. Hope.
                   Hope.
I hope for us three, I hope
for it all.

I hope.