Imperfect Past

It’s about all the things you think when your eyes are closing at night. When you have that last deep breath of the day. When you find a comfortable spot for your beautiful head on your goose feather pillow. You close your eyes and for an instant and revisit the day. Then you plan your tomorrow.  And somewhere between those two moments you actually think of how things could have turned out if you had said the right thing at that particular time when you didn’t say anything. You enact your reaction, as if you had a chance for a personal do-over. And you fantasise the outcome of those couple of unspoken words, you exercise how immensely different your life would have been — or at least the rest of your day.

It’s about you fancying not being caught by surprise, when you and I know that it’s the surprise that made a mark on your mind, not the lack of response. It’s about you realising that life has always a new trick under its vest. One for you, one for me. Another trick for the boy next door, whom you barely speak to. It’s the way life flows. It’s not about the imperfect past. It’s about all the things you think when your eyes are closing at night, just a second before you start dreaming of me.