The most painful part
Is when a memory
Is not a memory,
But I wish it was,
What could have been
That never transpired,
The imagined touch
Of fingers on a walk
Along a long familiar street,
Sympathetic caress
On your hair or shoulder
When you come near
To tears, the stirring
Inside me, real,
But unrequited,
Not yet justified,
Yet undeniable,
Like the gravity
Inflicted by
Heavenly bodies,
We can acknowledge,
Resist, but cannot
Keep from colliding,
A memory of what
I wished for,
Yet could not achieve,
The ache unsatisfied
Except in the endless
Reruns of what I
Would do, could do, if
I could or would
But ultimately,
Can’t.
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