The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows.

Maybe Yours Till The Day I Die.

I hope someday your husband is trailing around the kitchen counter and it's a lazy Sunday afternoon, sleep still lingering in your big brown eyes that rarely get any to begin with. A thick cup of dark coffee gripped between your palms, warming you up as the light rain pours outside your house window. Maybe the two of you will get a pet. Something odd probably, knowing you. A parrot, or a turtle, or maybe just a hamster. You'll hear him hum lightly as he cooks breakfast, the sound of eggs being fried and a spatula grazing stainless steel as white noise. Then you'll hear coherent words. Lyrics. 

Slowly, you recognize the song that twirls on his tongue. He sings it gracefully. His voice is the perfect pitch and every note is presented like it was made for him. He sings it right, yet it only feels wrong. There are no cracks in his voice. No chuckle as he stops abruptly to catch his breath. Not a trace of imperfection. In other words, not trace of realness. You realize, in him, there isn't a trace of me. Suddenly, you feel like you've wronged.

Then he sings the exact line I had etched into your brain along with my signature, as remembrance for the time we spent together a long time ago. Your heart stops, drops and stings. Your grip around the cup tightens. Your mind flashes back to my smile, toothy and genuine. Always genuine. Something about that bothered you, how my voice was always trailed with pain but my stupid smile was still always contagious. You think about every text. Or, perhaps, a specific one. The one I sent at 12:35 AM one time. I don't regret it, ya know? I never will. You can't make me. No matter how hard you try, and you try really hard really often.

You'll feel a hand on your waist. Time stops, cause for a split second you'll think it was me. It won't be. You'll turn around and it'll be him. Again, you'll look for a trace of me in him. In the way he looks at you, the way his cheeks lift, the way he touches you, the way his shoulders slump, the way he walks towards you, the way he treats you. You won't find a single similarity. Maybe you'll wish you could turn back time, and go back to that old school love. Maybe you'll think you shouldn't, because you'll think I'd hate you. Don't worry, love. I'll be waiting for you. If not in this, then in another universe.