My love, could you give me the moon?

If you just pluck it from the sky, like a lucky coin I’ll let it slip through my chest to keep me alive on the days you’re gone.

And in return I’ll give you the spring. 

I’ll make all of your fields green again, fill you with the kind of wildflowers you’ll forget how to breathe without the scent of, and spend endless hours hoping this is how you’ll remember me: floral, lion-maned, perpetually windswept.

Because I have a feeling all that’s left is being remembered.

I have a feeling that in a different lifetime we’d step into this together; I have a feeling that in a parallel universe this wouldn’t even be a question because you’d always be the answer. 

I know you can’t give me the moon, but that’s okay. Because I have a feeling I can.