In our alternative lives,
I probably would have been yours.

We would have blocked the smoke detector,
shared one cigarette after another,
sipped the same glass of luscious red,
with my fingers dancing across your chest,
and your left arm firm under my head.

You would talk to me about your poets,
musicians, photographers, and the others.
I would tell you a name I prefer
and get a good laugh from your grimace.
For you've never liked anyone I love.

We would have gone together to a show,
watching beauty in silent admiration.
Our souls would make love to their utmost
without us even touching each other.
That would be my kind of lovers.

Reality is harsh for the romantic,
but we know better than breaking the rules
for the sake of being rebellious fools.
In our arts we bury the strongest desires,
the only way we can give them life.

Have me already, my alternative self speaks,
for mutual madness is what we seek.
But this life, as close to the end as it is,
has taken you away from me
far too long before we met.

I might have imagined all the things unsaid,
consciously have your words misread.
But this one thing we both know best
is how to hide our fantasized regrets
deep behind our written lines.