When you aren’t with me, I pretend that you are. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel your fingers in mine. If I told you this, you would respond “and how would you know.” Rightly so. It’s only something I’ve imagined. Just like I imagine you reading bedtime stories to me, brushing my hair, having tea with me. Like I imagine tracing your cheekbones with my fingertips and staring too long into your eyes.
You are the only reason I care for the “many worlds” hypothesis of quantum mechanics. Then I can just suppose there is a world where I know what all these things are like. My delusions envelop me in their warmth, their delicious, intoxicating comfort. Please don’t wake me up — I don’t want to know the truth. I can pretend every glance between us is alight with secrets. Never tell me how you feel, never make me face anything, never ask me to decide. Tell me stories about your childhood and the forest you grew up in. Tell me the scents and songs that pull you – almost brutally – into the past. Close your eyes and describe what you’re seeing. Take me with you and I’ll be yours in the only way that matters. In your mind, and in mine.
(Disclaimer: This is part of the letter series)