Maybe one day we will come back to this place. You and me. Tried and tested. Maybe we will sit at this corner again, you in your favorite blue jeans and white shirt and me wearing my wary heart on my sleeves. Maybe we will start talking, you about your years and me quietly listening wishing I were there all along. Maybe you will take my hand the way you could have, should have but didn’t. Maybe I will not back off the way I couldn’t have, shouldn’t have but did. But maybe this is all just me dreaming. Maybe this is like one of those times I wake up in the middle of the night from a dream I don’t want to wake up from, but then can’t help but let my mind drift back into the same dream again and again wishing it will play out the way I subconsciously want it to.
Maybe we would find ourselves in another universe. I hope it’s beautiful there. Maybe we wouldn’t have to resort to our vocabulary, or the lack thereof, to say how much each of us doesn’t need to say a word. Maybe our thoughts would appear off the top of our head in literal bubbles that somehow caterpillar to the other person’s head and leave a mark on there. And maybe then you would understand how much I feel for you for how much you feel for me who would then be inside your heart inside mine. Maybe it wouldn’t be this hard. Maybe it shouldn’t be this hard.
Maybe there’s a part of me that still wants you. Maybe you know. Maybe that summer night in London never really ended. Maybe we are still two kids madly in love, unfazed by the world. Maybe this is a plot without any twist. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe… I don’t know. I really don’t know.
My heart is full of maybes. Maybe these maybes give me hopes in a world that tries to tell me to believe in black and white. Or maybe they are delusions. Maybe I would eventually grow out of them. Or maybe not. Maybe I want to live with them. Maybe one day I would tell you about my maybes. And maybe they will change your mind. Maybe then... they are no longer maybes.
Maybe you will show up at my door any moment now, bringing roses in your hands and butterflies in my stomach. Maybe I will stand up from where I’m sitting, lean out of the window, and smile at your shiningly handsome face, reaching out to retrieve my heart which by then will have completely wandered off from my chest to a happy heavenly place. Maybe I will say how you shouldn’t have bought roses, but maybe you will know I’m lying anyway. Maybe you will say romantic nothings, and I will reply with romantic somethings. Maybe I will fall in love all over again; or maybe I never have fallen out of love.
Maybe you have your maybes too. I hope they are the same with mine. But maybe they are not. Maybe you are with someone new. Maybe he comes with the certainty of zero maybes. Maybe that’s what you need. Maybe that’s what you think you need. Maybe you are at his door bringing roses in your hands. I wonder if he, maybe, has butterflies in his stomach? Maybe he’s running to the door to get you. Maybe he will say he loves roses and maybe that takes you back to my front door in your mind. But maybe not. Maybe he will say romantic nothings, and you will reply with romantic somethings. Maybe you will fall in love all over again. Maybe that’s the closure I need.
