It pains me, a bit to think about the possibilities of life if you were here, if I could watch your smile bloom upon your face see the signs of laughter brewing just after I’ve said something silly. I’d cook you dinner and blush with happiness when you teased me for my utter lack of skill and after you would make hot cocoa for our movie marathon and we’d have punch drunk discussions on the philosophy of psychopathic ****** for dessert. While the credits rolled your eyes would droop and your head, heavy with sleep would rest sweetly on my shoulder.
Would I kiss you, then? Softly, so as not to ruin the mood? Or fierce and biting with the breaking of long-held restraint? Would you invite me to your bed? And if you did, would I accept? Or would I stroke your hair and kiss you a gentle goodnight at your bedroom door? Would we grow old together, counting wrinkles as they form, marking the days with ridiculous anniversaries: first kiss, first fight, first joint bout of pyromania? Or would it end, perish early like so many things are wont to do?
Would you die first? Or would I? And when we were gone would we have anyone to tell stories about us and the crazy things we no doubt said and did?
Would I ever tell you this poem was about you? Maybe. Maybe, if you were here, I could.