In one of the many versions of my life, we would be one day sitting in Florian Cafe in Venice, the two of us.

We would not long for one another. Our bodies would not be hungry for the other’s touch. Our mouths would not devour the other’s lips. We would be looking forward to getting to that hotel room only to rest after a long day. Each to his own. 

We would be sipping our coffees quietly, like two people who have lived. And loved. Apart.

I can already see your elegant hands, your thin fingers, your carefully groomed nails shining discreetly as you’re slowly picking up your white porcelain cup. I can see you pursing your lips and blowing lightly over your hot coffee before you take a sip, I can see the sadness that’s always pulled a thin, grey veil over that sparkle in your eyes. I can see your smile. I can hear your deep voice and my womb remembers that unique vibration and smiles. There’s no fire burning, no river overflowing, there’s peace now.

Such spaciousness between us.

We would look at each other with curiosity, compassion and gratitude. We have not spent our most beautiful years together. We have been everywhere and done everything. Except grow old with each other. We gave that privilege to other people. 

But we found each other again. Spending a few quiet hours in patience and contentment. In the absence of fear. And of desire.

Now we know.

No one ever has anyone. So no one ever loses anyone.

When we were hungry for each other, we were most hungry for ourselves.

All we ever have is now.

An eternity.