Untitled Poem #11

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."