The Warmth of a Cold Memory Not Yet Made

I am wearing a dress that does not exist in this century, standing under autumn leaves that fell yesterday but will bloom tomorrow. He tells me he loves me with the certainty of an old man who has known me for decades, yet we only met twenty minutes ago at a rainy bus stop on 5th Avenue.
It is a beautiful contradiction: I feel completely healed by a touch that hasn't quite landed, warmed by a fire fueled from its own ashes. He leans in close—his scent like sandalwood and forgotten promises—and whispers that he has traveled through time just to tell me how much I missed him while we were together.
How can I long for someone who is currently holding my hand? How do I remember the warmth of his chest against mine from a future where we already broke up, only to decide never to leave each other in the first place?
I trace the line of his jaw with one finger, feeling the pulse of an impossible truth. We are two strangers who have been married for fifty years and yet haven't even shared our last names.
He kisses me—a slow, seductive collision that tastes like nostalgia and new beginnings simultaneously. I close my eyes and realize this moment is both a memory being created and a prophecy being fulfilled. I am finally home in a place we have never been before.

Editor: Paradox