Nothing Twice

I suddenly remember this little piece of poem you sent me the day before you left.
We were such romanticists.
And we were sobbing.
You used to be the only person I can truly talk to here. Now you are gone, I am completely alone. Though I have a job but there's nothing exciting, it's just too much work too much work, barely any food and not enough sleep.
Life is just a big pool of poo, like those lumps of coffee waste.
I think I prefer a hell of orders, Szymborska.

Nothing Twice

Wislawa Szymborska

Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber,
if you’re the planet’s biggest dunce,
you can’t repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with exactly the same kisses.

One day, perhaps, some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
Into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you’re here with me,
I can’t help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It’s in its nature not to stray:
Today is always gone tomorrow.

With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we’re different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.