Imagine a life that isn’t. Isn’t yours and isn’t mine. If you and I never meet, and never meeting meet different selves. The fusion of lives intersecting lead to a different discourse, intercourse. Of course life would be different. You and I would never be as we are being. The cross between the life we did and the life we didn’t wouldn’t meet in the middle. Imagine a life we can’t. A life where we never met at homecoming, me spilling punch on your pumpkin orange dress. You wouldn’t smile. And I’d never know why you would have smiled. The date dancing with the homecoming queen, having only asked you because his first choices were taken. We wouldn’t spend the rest of the night dancing and talking, and you, finally disappearing into the caverns of your mother’s car. I never had the courage to talk to you. Or perhaps we were both just occupied with trying to graduate. But it never would be. And three months later, we wouldn’t slip, naked, into the water and try to chase the moon’s reflection. Minus the intersection of meeting, our far apart would we drift? Would I have been in Chicago, or New York? You would be in London. Choices made together that would never. The stucco and brick house we share would house a different family, with two kids and a cat, instead of two dogs. It’s hard to imagine separate lives, separate places, and never meeting and never being. But fortunately, we don’t need to try.