I woke in a blur—
   ink-smudged hands,
   notes scribbled wildly,

   words tumbling out like they were late for something.

We were there,
   in some impossible café—
   coffee scented laughter,
   foam-topped arguments…

   where realities collided like over-caffeinated customers.

At one table,
   versions of us
   who'd never met—
   politely awkward,

   fumbling through introductions.

At another,
   old friends swapping stories,
   laughing so hard coffee flew everywhere,

   like punchlines from another dimension.

In the corner,
   a couple—decades deep—
   arguing playfully
   about who fell in love first…

   as if time ever kept score.

And then there was us—
   the original or maybe not,
   arguing with alternate selves

   about whose version was luckiest.

"She removed 'hate' from his vocabulary!"
"Well, he fixed his teeth!"
"She figured out the blog back door!" ("He found & fixed that!")
"Wait— he wrote *how many* poems?"
"She's the first one to ever love his voice, though!"

Every universe had an opinion—
   every table,
   every voice,
   every us…

   competing for the title of best love story.

When I woke,
   laughter echoed softly away,
   empty coffee cups vanished,
   tables faded back into darkness—

   but one truth lingered, unmistakable:

In every universe,
   every possibility,
   every strange iteration,

   I still found you.

Every damn time.

And even awake,
    even now,
    I’m convinced—

    this version of us,

    _right here_,

    is the best one yet.