You were the story I didn’t write,
the painting I didn’t make,
the goodbye I didn’t give,
and the chance I didn’t take.
You were the phonograph I never played,
the song I didn’t sing,
and a northwest passage expedition
that never made it to Beijing.
You’re the pictures on the wall
that never did get hung.
You’re the spool of gold, my darling,
the Singer never sung.
You’re the tears that fill my eyes
in the silent whispers of the night.
You’re my stomach filled with butterflies,
and the lyrics I just can’t write.
You’re the thoughts that flood my brain
with each new day I wake.
You’re the last one on my mind,
and the peace I didn’t make.
You’re the absence missed so very deeply,
the restless longing in my core.
You’re the marker of what once was
to never going back before.
You put the blue in my iris,
and the sharpness in my sight.
You were the Titanic’s unveiling,
and the Concorde’s initial flight.
But, there’s always that damned iceberg,
or that nitrogen-oxide flare,
that brings unthinkable to its knees,
that pollutes the purity of care.
I know what the music sounds like,
the score I never played,
and I can hear the prayers,
the ones I never prayed.
And for that blasted painting,
I know the colors I would use.
The strokes would be exacting,
capturing nothing, but breathtaking hues.
Our goodbyes would never be final.
We’d give Sibelius our best.
We’d make the trek with Amundsen.
We’d put unsinkable to the test.
For these are the feats,
we never got to make.
This is the kind of entanglement
that causes all particles to shake.
Though the Hall of Mirrors is now empty,
Versailles is still a vision to behold.
While love is like a Carthaginian Peace,
the history is a story worth being told.
For knowing you, I am grateful,
despite all the salt-sown pain.
All it takes for a new garden to grow
is a little washing of the rain.