The wreckage

Sometimes my mind drifts away, and I dream about seeing you again. It would happen in a distant future, many years from now, many years since the last time we'd seen each other, since last time we'd spoken bitter words. When everything we'd lived together would be but a dim shadow, a worned out memory that we wouldn't often see under the daylight. Life would be different then. We'd meet by chance; and after the initial shock, we'd look into each other's eyes and see the distance between the paths we'd both walked since the moment when we'd let ourselves fall and crash. We'd remember us. Everything would flow back into out waking minds, every memory, a tidal wave we'd be powerless to stop. All the questions. All the doubts. All the fears. Everything would rush back into us. And we'd go. Each of us would resume the walking through the paths we'd chosen many years before. Only that time both of us would know the why, and yet we wouldn't change it. Somethings are never meant to be, regardless of how much we desire them. That, in the end, would be the lesson we'd both taken out of the wreckage.