You walk back into my office.
Entire universes live and die on the fingertips of choice.
“I feel like an asshole–”
I stop breathing. Look you in the eye for the first time in a year smell the warm denim jacket skin unscented soap crushed lavender from across the room. In the winter of your pause I am in suspended animation living the memory of my arms around your perfect waist, soft, pulling you back into bed.
You aren’t looking at me.
I’m looking past every time you said I was something that could be fixed and into a future where kickstart apologies sputter into something bruised burning wilted growing up out of ashes the way forests do after wildfires.
“– I didn’t need that appointment after all.”
The splitsecond hairsbreadth moment passes.
“If” is the biggest word in the English language.