A Thousand Lifetimes

And for you, I would live and love and learn for a thousand more lifetimes.

Across centuries and continents, we live our thousand lifetimes.

Sometimes we meet when your eyes shine with youth, while age has creased the corners of my eyes that laughter has ceased to fill. Sometimes we meet when I’m clumsily crossing the threshold of adulthood, while you carry yourself with elegance, the lines on your face bestowing gravitas to your bearing.

Sometimes we meet when we’re both young and fiery, and we fall for each other madly, recklessly, passionately. Sometimes we meet when we’ve grown and matured, and we fall carefully, slowly, but no less passionately.

One thing that never changes — you’re never less beautiful than the you I met in my previous lifetime, or any lifetime before that.

You’re always beautiful.

But you’re never more beautiful than you are this moment, when you’re asleep in my arms, your peaceful face a reminder why I’d live and die a thousand times for you.

Sometimes you don’t remember me; your eyes are distant and disbelieving when I tell you we’ve met before. Sometimes I find you in the embrace of another person–one who isn’t me and will never love you the way I do. Sometimes I have to live with someone who isn’t you and die without ever finding you.

I live through those lifetimes anyway. Because I have to. And because I still have the hope that I’d find you in the next lifetime and you’d love me too and we’d finally be happy.

It’s naive, it’s simplistic, stupid even, but I’ve loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

Sometimes we grow up together, and I’m blessed with years to know everything about you–the colour of your hair and eyes, the things you like and dislike, the sides of you that you’d never entrust to anyone but me. Sometimes you’d recognise me right from the moment we meet; you’d throw your arms around me and I’d know that I’ve found home. Sometimes your voice is the last thing I heard, lulling me to sleep only to wake up again in another lifetime as another person, and sometimes you die still holding my hands with a smile on your face.

I am as in love with you as much as I am in love with our happier lifetimes.

As much as I love those lifetimes, though, I dread them. I dread their end, and I dread the possibility of living a lifetime without you after one in which I’m so used to your presence.

Sometimes I’m an artist.

Sometimes I’m a composer; I weave melodies that whisper of my innermost longing. Sometimes I’m a writer; I write odes for a lost love, sonnets about my most intimate desires, and elegies lamenting dreams long gone. Sometimes I’m a painter; I paint vistas and events, but my favourite subject is the beautiful stranger who haunt my dreams.

You’re always my muse, but you never know.

We live and we die. We fall in and out of love. We find and lose each other.

We feel contentment and disappointment, we feel pleasure and pain, or sometimes we feel nothing, comfortably numb after hurting too much, too long.

We don’t always have a happy ending together. But maybe a soul mate isn’t always your one and only true love. Sometimes the other half of your soul is the one you learn the most about love from, even if the love doesn’t last.

You’re the other half of my soul, that I know for sure.

And for you, I’d live and love for a thousand more lifetimes.

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