What of the basketballs that never made it into the net?

What of all those beautiful shirts you never got the chance to wear?

What of the poems you wrote but were never heard?

What of flowers that were never photographed?

What of beautiful weather that wasn’t enjoyed?

What of creeks that were never swum in?

What of the old food that rots away in the fridge?

What of lovers that never got to love?

What of kisses that weren’t shared?

What of the letters that could have been written?

And the words that could have been said?

What of the withheld coughs on the subway?

What of the smile you never gave?

What of the guest room that never housed a soul?

What of the countless countries that still await your footsteps?

What of the untouched guitar you said you’d learn to play?

Slowly these things come alive with just a touch of imagination

and anxiety.

You wake up in the middle of the night,

not realizing that you –

or perhaps someone you thought you were –

forgot so much,

withheld so much,

drowned so far into a void of numbness,

in fear of standing out.

What of those missed moments?

What of those inexperiences?

And what of life if every moment is just another missed experience?


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