I don’t know where I stop and you begin.
it’s all just a memory, I know.
None of this is real.
I don’t deserve to have you written on my skin any more than you deserve
to be there.

Finding the start and the finish is not possible.
Before you is/was/will always be chaos:
Just the madness of myself, the insanity of Alone.

It does not fit a neat little plot. I can’t write it
or think it
or tell it
that way.

No longer do I subscribe to theories
that time runs in straight lines,
the future ahead and the past behind,
how could I sleep if that were true?

Everything happens at once.

I exist both here, and there.
We are together still,
and also apart.
I am comforted by the time I spend in your arms
and the knowledge that I will one day see your green eyes
for the very first time.