in an alternate universe,
the moth turns its back on the lamp,
icarus flies to the moon instead,
sylvia stays for spring,
vincent sells just one painting and smiles,
and the idea of us never begins.
maybe
the museum we met at was never built,
you never took the wrong turn,
and i missed my train to paris.
you married your first love,
never left town,
had two daughters –
joanna and jill who looked nothing like you
but carried your sighs.
your mother held you closer than her whiskey,
the boy loved you back,
no scars on your wrist.
i try to picture myself in there,
but none come into being without you.
no fresh orange juice in twin glasses,
no soft morning chaos,
no fingers tracing planets on my arm.
is it cruel then to wish this universe never exists
not here, not now, not ever,
quantum physics be damned?
is it longing or love
to want the wreckage too –
your mother, the failed love, the wrong turns –
is it selfish to want it all over again?