I’m Everyone I’ve Ever Been When I’m With You
Before I met you, I dreamed disasters.
Every kind, different ones each night. Sunken battleships. Cornfields gouged by downed airplanes. War memorials littered with empty votive candles collecting old rainwater. City streets buried in swirling dunes of volcanic ash.
Before I met you, there was mildew on my shower curtain.
I was convinced that I was dying breathing it in.
Before I met you, the city seemed empty.
I walked by half-eaten sandwiches on plates outside of darkened cafes. I stared at stagnant cars that lined the dead end streets.
Before I met you, I wasn’t me.
I was a bank robber. I robbed banks and wore balaclavas. I was a used car salesman. I sold your older brother that station wagon with the rattling muffler. I was a cellist at a rooftop restaurant playing songs for people eating lobster.
I was never myself. And now I’m more than myself. I’m myself with you. I’m everyone I’ve ever been when I’m with you.
And you don’t seem to mind.