Oh, baby, I had a dream where your body turned cold, and I grieved and bawled with a bloody knife in my hand. I tried to breathe the life I’d been so reluctant to live into you. I hoped you’d forgive me—once my heart stopped, and yours started. It was a nightmare, baby, and I wonder whether a bad dream was better than sleepless nights. Or would it be better than nights when I talked, walked, laughed, and ate next to you and barely remembered anything happening? Am I overthinking it, overdoing it, over-feeling it? But memories are pieces of a puzzle, and when my head lives in multiple worlds, am I poor or privileged? Baby, someday I can’t even trust myself, and I know you will be next to me like the lighthouse you are, and I’ll be there living in your shadow. But if the knife’s pierced in and your body’s getting cold, in which world would I live because you mean the world to me? So when my mind drifts again, and I mumble things I won’t recall, know that I’ll be glad if you press the blade to my temple. Quick, end it before I ask you to.

Some nights, I live in too many places. Some mornings, I don’t remember any of them. The world is too cold for me, but you’ll find warmth wherever you go.