Breathe

Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast, the Red Queen tells Alice. Sometimes, when I am having an anxiety attack, I like counting them down on my fingers until I can breathe again.

One, our doppelgangers exist in parallel universes, and time runs slowly enough in one of them for there to be a me that still exists without knowing what you taste like.

Two, the touch of your fingers on my skin is not an anesthetic but a thread looping in and out to make sure I will never be quite that frayed again.

Three, millions of books exist, and hundreds more are being written even as I type, and yet none holds the story we have in our souls.

Four, the touch of your fingers is the red thread, but I am the one stitching, every moment, every day.

Five, our doppelgangers exist in parallel universes, and time has sped ahead enough for a me that exists in knowledge that the last time I tasted you, was the last.

Six, in this moment, I am breathing.

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