In my head we're seventeen, sitting next to each other in psychology class, and I have just told you that I think you're secretly a romantic. You look at me, eyes wide, as though I have told you that you are a bug or an axe murderer, and your furious denials do nothing to change my mind.
In my head we're twenty-three, and you are looking at me like no one has before or since, like I am a new species of creature, like you are starving. And then your hands are in my hair and I realize, for maybe the first time, the limitations of imagination. Real life is suddenly my favorite place.
In my head we're twenty-three, on the phone in the hours that are very late for me and very early for you, and you've admitted that I might have been right and that you may be a romantic. I laugh until I cry at the chagrin in your voice, as though everyone doesn't already know this. As though it's not one of your best qualities.
In my head we're twenty-four, on the phone, and I am blushing to my toes. I think you should come to visit me, and you agree enthusiastically but never do. I think we should go to France, and you agree enthusiastically and we never do. Ultimately I think this is what happened to the romantic part of us, all the time and the distance and that you always wanted to and never did. Somewhere in there I always thought we'd get another shot.
In my head we're twenty-seven, and we can't figure out where to go. We always find somewhere, and I get back to where I'm staying at dawn dazed about where the hours have gone, foggy-brained and smiling.
In my head we're twenty-eight and I would stop time here if I could. Our friends don't know what we're up to when we leave their house and later you're crying, which makes me cry, and I don't know if I've ever been as close to another human before. I shift my torso onto yours and try to beam all of my light into you.
In my head we're thirty-one and we've both had serious enough relationships at home that things have shifted between us, but everything that is really important is still the same and we sing along to the radio and laugh until we can't breathe anymore.
In my head we're thirty-four and I'm in town unexpectedly for another funeral. It's a hard one, and one of the only things I have to look forward to is making jokes that will bring out your big laugh. You're still one of my favorite people on the planet and making you laugh is the easiest thing but it's still so gratifying.
In my head we still have so many years left.
In my head we're twenty-three, and you are looking at me like no one has before or since, like I am a new species of creature, like you are starving. And then your hands are in my hair and I realize, for maybe the first time, the limitations of imagination. Real life is suddenly my favorite place.
In my head we're twenty-three, on the phone in the hours that are very late for me and very early for you, and you've admitted that I might have been right and that you may be a romantic. I laugh until I cry at the chagrin in your voice, as though everyone doesn't already know this. As though it's not one of your best qualities.
In my head we're twenty-four, on the phone, and I am blushing to my toes. I think you should come to visit me, and you agree enthusiastically but never do. I think we should go to France, and you agree enthusiastically and we never do. Ultimately I think this is what happened to the romantic part of us, all the time and the distance and that you always wanted to and never did. Somewhere in there I always thought we'd get another shot.
In my head we're twenty-seven, and we can't figure out where to go. We always find somewhere, and I get back to where I'm staying at dawn dazed about where the hours have gone, foggy-brained and smiling.
In my head we're twenty-eight and I would stop time here if I could. Our friends don't know what we're up to when we leave their house and later you're crying, which makes me cry, and I don't know if I've ever been as close to another human before. I shift my torso onto yours and try to beam all of my light into you.
In my head we're thirty-one and we've both had serious enough relationships at home that things have shifted between us, but everything that is really important is still the same and we sing along to the radio and laugh until we can't breathe anymore.
In my head we're thirty-four and I'm in town unexpectedly for another funeral. It's a hard one, and one of the only things I have to look forward to is making jokes that will bring out your big laugh. You're still one of my favorite people on the planet and making you laugh is the easiest thing but it's still so gratifying.
In my head we still have so many years left.
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