I'll never burn as brilliantly as you

The very first time I remember you,
you are blonde, 

and you don't love me back. 

The next time; you are brunette, and you do. 

After a while I give up trying to guess 

if the colour of your hair means anything. 

Because even when you don't exist,
I'm always in love with you. 

I remember most fondly those lifetimes 

where we get to grow up together, 

when you share your secrets and sorrows 

and hiding places with me. 

I love how you play along with my bad ideas, 

before you grow up and realize they're bad ideas. 

(And in our times together I have many many bad ideas.) 

When we meet as adults you're always much more discerning. 

I don't blame you. Yet, always, you forgive me. 

As if you understand what's going on, 

and you're making up for all the lifetimes in which one of us doesn't exist and the ones where we just, 

barely, never meet. 

I hate those.
I prefer the ones in which you kill me. 

But when all's said and done, 

I'd rather surrender to you in other ways. 

Even though each time, I know I'll see you again, 

I always wonder is this the last time?
Is that really you? 

And what if you're already perfectly happy without me? 

Ah, but I don't blame you;
 I'll never burn as brilliantly as you. 

It's only fair that I should be the one to chase you across ten, twenty-five, 

a hundred lifetimes until I find the one where you'll return to me.

I've loved you for a thousand years 

and I'll love you for a thousand more.
 ♥♥♥