Maybe if I close my eyes and believe in a God hard enough, there's an alternate timeline where I'm holding his hand in Seattle and it's snowing
I think we would have been a really good couple. How many pieces am I going to write about him? All of them were churned out after midnight or in the brief moments between the shifts we never did work together. Maybe if I hadn't been so lazy it could have been you and me on a foggy Saturday morning, maybe if I'd been a little braver it could have been you and me side by side in the city.
What would you say about me now? About this new body I inhabit, about this new face I wear? If you saw me again, would the present change the past? Still a coward, I can't bear to know the answer.
Even so, is it strange to still be mourning? To be loved by an artist is to never die, and you know it better than I do. I hope in the winter you can still take photos of me.
You're a good man. I don't want to change that.