Sometimes,
when we’re just staring
into the abyss of
each other’s eyes,
I close my own,
and another world
flashes behind my
eyelids.

We sit across from each other
in a smoky bar,
soft brass playing in the
background,
mixing with the swift piano
and thumping bass.
You crack a joke
and I can’t help but smile.

Sometimes we’re at home, years
from now.
You’re frying eggs
and I’m sipping lukewarm tea
from an old mug we bought
together.
I’ve scattered old pictures of
us on the walls.
We look so young,
but our spark hasn’t faded.

And other times,
we’re traveling:
Windows rolled down,
music blaring,
singing along to every song
from our chaotic youth.

When I open my eyes,
you’re always smiling.
Maybe you know about the
images that play upon the blackness
of my closed eyelids.
Maybe you know how
much I want to believe in
them.
In any case,
you pull me in,
almost like you’ve
read my mind,
whispering against my skin,
“This isn’t it.
Please believe me.”