The other one, the other me, is the one who doesn’t think.

This me can switch off their brain, 

like those amber lights that illuminate the garden long after the sun sets.

I know nothing but double takes. Sometimes triple. Usually more.

But this me doesn’t read faces like books.

They don’t think about how things would be different if-

I check everything twice. The mail. The mirror. The old lock on the front door.

if it weren’t for the wedding. The funeral. That new house. Or that one. Or this one.

The house I can leave with no plans but not with no reason.

This me doesn’t steer as far away as possible from what scares them.

I don’t believe in fate. Or destiny. Or soulmates.

But this me knows what the other one doesn’t.

None of it matters. Because the future might as well 

be written right here on this page in invisible ink.