Eventually, there will be no you. There will be no me, and no you to remember me. Eventually, the sun we once knew will set and a new one will rise. Eventually, the moon will peek out from behind its guardian clouds and smile. But it won’t be the smile we’re used to. The smile will be for the new lovers. The ones that still write love letters and buy flowers. Eventually, a little girl will stand for too long in the first place we kissed, and learn to believe in true love. Eventually, your smell will radiate off another boy’s sweater, and my smooth skin will become someone else’s. The familiarity of our world will disappear without a trace, and no one will know what we made. They won’t understand how we hung up each star and guided the moon out from behind the clouds. They won’t understand that I placed each follicle of your smell onto your skin so I’d always be able to find my way home. They won’t know how you smoothed my crackled exterior over with the simplicity and grace of your touch.

Eventually, our universe will implode from all of our secrets and lies and betrayals. It will collapse around us as the last pieces of us fragment. But it will not make a sound. Suddenly, there will be no more you, and no more me. There will only be the air we once breathed; being inhaled by a runner, sprinting through the park on a frigid December day. He will grasp for air, and breathe in the same air we exhaled for him. The same air you exhaled for me. Eventually, when this world, the world filled with the new lovers, and little girls, and frozen runners, ends too, we can live in the memories. We can dance, through the world we will recreate, in the spaces between the air, and we can re-hang the stars.