Time Machine #2

I would go back to a time when you were mine.
A Sunday night, when we weren’t rushing to go somewhere,
or listening to something, or accidentally falling asleep like fully-clothed puppies. 
I would wait for a moment you were listening to me. Really listening.
Present, quiet, still. 
I’d say “Hi” and listen till I heard your steady voice, not the one that goes up an octave when you pretend.
I would look you in the eyes and tell you “One day you might not speak to me anymore.”
Past-you would protest this, say you couldn’t imagine a world where we didn’t speak to one another - 
I will give you that. I will not correct you. I will smile and say,
“On the crazy, absurd, off-chance that one day you might not speak to me anymore, I want you to know: I hope you are marvelously, wonderfully, desperately happy. I hope you adore someone who hears your full voice. I hope the life you have without me brings you joy. At my saddest and maddest and most confused: I will always love you.”  
You would hear me then, if you cannot hear me now. 
Someone else can go back and kill Hitler.