In five, ten years

I wonder what’s up for me in five, ten years? What’s up for us?

Are we still gonna be okay like this? Are we still gonna be this close? Am I going to be happy with you? Or with someone else?

I love you now. But do I still love you in five, ten years? Maybe, I’ll love someone else. I’ll love someone like how I love you now. Treat him special like how I treat you now. And I’ll just remember you, very seldom I’ll remember you, from the back of my memory. When I do, I’ll just remember you vaguely as someone who used to be special but not as special as the one I’m with.

But maybe you’ve been the most special.

Every new person who comes is going to be special. He will seem more special than the last. But I wouldn’t be able to tell for sure because the last one would’ve faded out of focus and into a vague memory. And I wouldn’t be able to recall how special he was to me.

If that happens—when I meet someone else—I want to be able to remind myself how special you are to me right now, right here. And how you’ve made me feel special. How you’ve made me want to be closer and closer to you and how it’s going to be worth it to spend days with you. How you’ve made me want to still see you in five, ten, twenty years.

I wonder what’s up for you in five, ten years?

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