you try to catch him earlier,
every life.

the first time,
you were far too late.
your revolutionary already married to his cause
long before you stumbled upon the scene.
you tried to deliver the message anyways,
hoping
that if you posed your doubts enough times
eventually he’d hear you.
already knowing you were far, far too late.
(you die holding hands,
at least,
together at the bitter end;
you still count this
a mission completed.)

the next, and the next, and the next,
you move a little quicker through life
fighting to his side
determined that this time
you will catch him before he is too far gone.
you are always a little too late,
though it is better every time.
(you hold hands, still,
the first time you do so earlier and earlier than the end,
even.
this must be a good sign.)

every life you begin
with your hands reaching for the one you last held,
before.
every life you journey to his side (sometimes her side,
or their side,
gender never matters; it’s the same spirit
the same love between you.
your same journey.)
every life you end
with your hands clasped tight; the mission still failed
(or maybe)
you begin to wonder if it is you or fate doing the failing.

(the life that you find him
well before his revolution has,
you know it is the last time.

this time,
he greets you with a smile
and tells you he’s been waiting.

this time,
you promise,
there will be no bloody, battered finales.
nothing but love and holding hands.
he is done fighting,
or maybe–
he has started fighting for the two of you, alone.

the first time you hold hands
is the first time you meet;
the last time you hold hands
is years later, both of you old and grey
and even knowing the journey is entirely over, now,
you have never been happier for an ending.)