Sometimes I want to take those three months back, because if
they hadn’t happened then, maybe they could have happened now;
maybe we could have stayed up all night, with me listening to your voice and you, letting me pretend it meant nothing; maybe
I wouldn’t be writing this; like a lover pining over the already lost;
I mean, you told me that you got drunk that one day, and all I could muster up was a weak murmur of disapproval.
I mean, I’ve been sitting on this bed all night, and thinking about you as if that chapter hadn’t already been written,
I mean, why can’t I edit my own life?
Take those months, take that paragraph and paste it in the present instead.
Take this feeling and build the world I had then around it.
See, every corner of my house reminds me of a conversation we’ve had, and every book I read seems to hold a hint of you, and
it doesn’t even matter because I already wrote that chapter and there’s no place in this novel for repetition,
especially when the story will end the same way.