I think long odds are meant to be beaten.
That huge distances of separation can be made into magic, so that when meets do happen it is nothing less beautiful or terrible than poetry.
That "tho much is tak'n much still remains" -- enough for a last attempt at living it the way it should be. That will have the bus-rides and plane tickets, house bills and bickering; but also the sound of Baez on a rainy Saturday morning at home over coffee. Oblique references to Abani at returning home.
The movies, music and places that weave a different kind of poetry when two people are in that perfect symmetry. Its not the smell of new books, but the mildewed musty welcome from dog-eared yellowed tomes that are old comrades.
That a wait is so much more when it is worth the wait.
It is not all a dream. I have seen it in friends, albeit once.
That if there ever was a time for taking a mad chance, for cauterizing old wounds and taking on glibly the chance of new bruises -- it is this.
That I have never been more certain not to do again the usual litany of those late nights, sudden fevered touches over wine, Pink Floyd and darkness, messy one-shots and the inevitable knowledge that "this is not it." Which has littered most of my undergrad. It is worth the wait.
That rhododendron is worth it. And that we both are waiting for summer and a chance.