Please Universe, let me see him again.
I understand that, in the end, what we might have wanted and what we did actually have would not have mattered at all. We are unimportant, irrelevant for what you are.
Ephemeral, fragile, little things.
A finite period of time in Earth’s history. An era, like the dinosaurs were one once, but with the difference that no one will be there to remember us.
But, at least, love would have existed.
If I never were to experience again the smell of his laundry soap, his hand in mine, his feather-like kisses on my forehead or the warm weight of his body upon mine, I would feel like, perhaps, one story in the history of stories would have been left without an end.
And that somehow, there might be an infinitesimal part of your story, the greater story, also missing.