Letters to My Other Self

Dear you,

the one who turned left when I turned right —

I imagine your hands carrying a different weight,

your nights unfolding in rooms I never entered.

Do you sleep better, or worse?

Do you still pause at windows,

wondering what could have been

if only we had switched places?

Dear you,

sometimes I envy your courage,

sometimes I pity your silence.

I picture you gathering versions of joy

I could never touch,

but also collecting wounds

that spared me.

We are mirrors distorted by choices,

each reflecting what the other lacks.

Dear you,

I write not to ask forgiveness

but to braid our timelines together.

Your laughter echoes faintly through mine,

and your sorrow has watered my soil.

Even apart, we are not separate:

two rivers running beside each other,

sometimes crossing in dreams.

Dear you,

I send tenderness across the distance,

to the self I almost became.

May your regrets be lighter than mine.

May your tenderness outlast your doubts.

And if one day the worlds collapse into one,

I will meet you at the crossroad

where all our choices began.