In another life

In another life we made love. We built gardens with dirt smeared kisses while our hands were in the soil. And we watched as the plants changed with the seasons, unlike our love that seemed only to grow stronger and never really to suffer the worst parts of winter. In another life we were committed and we held each other through the fires and the storms. We celebrated with sweet wines in the summers and we stayed up late to count our blessings along with the stars. In another life we had each other and it seemed as if that meant we had the world, sitting hand in hand at the edge of infinity gazing off into the distance and dreaming about what we could do with it. In another life. But not this one, I now suspect. In this one, I occasionally close my eyes and drift off into a dream where I feel it but never can touch it. In this life I have the hands and the dirt and the flowers, but no kiss. I have the blessings and the stars but no hand to hold as I count them. So I thank them that you exist. And I thank them that somewhere, and in some time, that life exists. I thank the stars that, in another life, or in a dream, we made love.

©️ 2025 Cristen Writes