Sometimes, late at night, when everyone is asleep but me, I wonder what happened to B and K and A and A and M and K and R and that one I kissed for an hour and half in front of a keg who told me she was a lawyer and I later learned was called Prob after her Indian name Prabha.
Why am I wondering about the lives I didn’t live with them?
What is it about my life as it is that I am wondering about them at all?
My eyes ride the light of the social sites as my wonder turns to actual searching that leads nowhere and tells me nothing, but nonetheless makes me feel like a cheater in my own bed.
Of course, I’m not a cheater at all. Just curious looking over old wounds and versions of myself that I decided long ago to shed like the skin of a snake.
I turn the phone off and shift.
You breath in the dark and murmur in your dreams.
I wonder if you ever think about your old lives.
But as I close my eyes and feel the heat of your body and the faint scent of your strawberry shampoo finds its way to me, I feel so glad I made the choice to be in this life, with you.
