for what we could have been.
You know me. Not as well as you want to, not as well as you should. But you do. You know you feel this -- the quiet sizzle of Something that neither of us can name. It's squeezed between the particles between us, reminding us who we were (could have been? will be?). You, with your naive idealism and me, with my endless devotion to you and your bright eyes. Every time, you are reckless and every time, I follow you anywhere. In every other time, I know the soft give of your skin. I can trace the tattoos on your back in the dark, watching your body rise and fall with the gentle rhythm of sleep. I would wake up earlier than you to warm you a cup of tea, or coffee for that matter, prepared how you like it.
I would know whether you prefer coffee or tea.
I would be yours, wholly and irrevocably, but that's the same here too, I guess. Is this one the anomaly? Is this the universe that took us the inch too far to miss our collision? Was this written for us, just translated wrong? Because here. Here, you have him. I have her. Two stars who just missed their mark. We'll be happy, no doubt. This is what was written. But do you see the letters dented in the page? Just past our story -- or just mine, and just yours -- is the one of us. Where cold bathroom floors lead to warm lips pressed together, a little shaky and a little sloppy and even more unsure. Where we're more than glances shared over tables, across the room, and whispers of What If's behind closed doors. I'd walk in a room and you would light up for me, not for him. In every life, I know you'd understand. If I told you this, if I reminded you the infinite branches of our fates. I hope you would. I hope you feel it. Do you remember me the way I remember you?
Love (from another universe),