in one universe,
I wake up as a child,
sunlight pouring through the heavy curtains
and embracing me in warmth.
my mother knocks softly on the door,
and tells me good morning.

in another,
I am driving down a highway
in the middle of the night,
holding the hand of contentment
as we let the radio drown out the silence.
I pay no attention to the exit signs
because I know I am already home.

but today,
I woke up in shambles.
I tried to rebuild myself from the ruins,
but I can only seem to create a hollow outline
from the pieces I have.
like a child's toy,
happiness must have been sold separately.

today,
the exit signs seemed to glow,
advertising familiar names, but foreign places
―destinations I've never reached,
but always seem to be approaching.

they tell us darkness is just the absence of light,
but they never say when the light comes back.

in some universe,
I am rewinding my happiest moments
and experiencing them for the first time again.

but today,
I killed what I wanted to be
and buried her beside what I almost was.