afraid

“I’m afraid it’s too late”, she says. I know it is. I just don’t want to know. I want to keep dreaming up the stories of how things would be, how I’d be a better person somehow, like how I wouldn’t be stuck being me. Somehow I’d be who I wanted to be, and you’d be who you always dreamed you’d be too.

Nothing would be painful, because after all it was meant to be. Sunday would be our days to discover, and we’d share the things we’d wondered about all week under the dim lighting in our living room sitting close together under a blanket. I’d ask if you wanted to share a bottle of wine with me, and then we would laugh at our own theories on life because we know nothing. But at least we would laugh.