If We Ended Up Together

If we ended up together,
I’d probably be a lawyer by now.
I wouldn’t have left school early for business.
We’d probably already be married,
collecting photographs
that stretch quietly over a decade.

If we ended up together,
you’d have built a small tower
of boxed gourmet food you pass off as cooking.
I’d keep smiling, impressed enough,
pretending I didn’t notice the boxes
tucked away with the rest of your rubbish.

If we ended up together,
we’d already be good at skim-boarding.
Or maybe surfing, on my father’s land.
Our yellow skin turned sun-dark,
we’d look like beach hippies
when we returned to the city,
facing our high-maintenance friends.

If we ended up together,
we would have made brands.
Creation was always our language.
You had the mind,
I had the nerve.
We’d be thriving.
Still indifferent to politics,
still looking forward
to the next Victoria’s Secret show.

If we ended up together,
we’d have collected
countless breakfast moments—
the quiet kind that outlives love.
I’d drink coffee and eat cake with your mother.
We’d do tai chi and yoga
with your parents by the pool,
then convince them
to drive out for lunch.

If we ended up together,
it would mean I was brave.
I didn’t leave you for the beach
just to clear my head.
I would’ve told you to drive and fetch me.
It would mean I didn’t doubt you.
And you didn’t give me a reason to.

—

Written: September 2008. Ateneo grounds
By Casey Huang
From the Still Poetry House archive