My head knows what I dreamed of can’t occur.
My heart is certain it could still be real.
What does it say about my character
When false hope is the strongest hope I feel?
I ache with loss for what I never had.
I miss the meal I never got to eat.
How dumb is that, to make myself feel bad
And suffer, thanks to both kinds of conceit?
And yet it weighs me down, this weightless loss—
This past unlived; this future never shared—
And I hang from a self-created cross
I could step down from right now. If I dared.
My untouched heart throbs like I just got shivved there.
I’m dwelling on it—but we never lived there.
Copyright 2016 Matthew J Wells
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