The very first time I remember, you are small, and you don't love me back.

The next time you are tall, and you do.

After a while I give up trying to guess if your height means anything, because even when you don't exist, I'm always in love with you.

I remember most finally those lifetimes where we got to grow up together, 

when you share your secrets and sorrows and hiding place with me.

I love you how play along with my bad ideas, 

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

(And in our times together I have 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 always 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.