Fits

It's difficult for me to think of being
Without you, given how my life is going;
That doesn't mean, of course, that I'm forseeing
A chance of that, nor that the wind is blowing
In that direction: no, the opposite.
But still sometimes the mind can wander oddly
Trying to make a different pattern fit
The present data. Now, in some ungodly
Capricious fit of mine, I find I'm thinking
Of what the world would be were I alone,
And almost into a depression sinking
To contemplate a life all on my own.
But only almost, for I know you're mine,
And so it's just a fiction makes me pine.