Could it be. That's it's all coming together. Just not all at once, and not in our timing. And then gradually, slowly, romantically, it melds into place with only you and I left. And even we become one.
Could it be. That I am writing this from the future. As a reminder, that everything is temporary. And that your heart is as precious as a piece of gold. I swear, and I don't swear often, that after the dust settles and we lie down, that you and I become one.
Could it be. That this is all one big play. And that you and I contribute a verse, like Whitman, like every other poet that said what we couldn't but still felt. The words on our mouth like hot coals will soon be dipped in magic waters. And when you kiss my lips you will be kissing yourself. For you and I are one.
And finally. This one last thing. Reach out for me, for it will be like reaching out to you. Pull me close, for it will be as if you would embrace your own soul. For you and I are one.