In another life,
I could’ve—
enjoyed reading beside you,
folded clothes together,
sat side by side in complete silence,
sung along with your guitar,
made jokes about nonsensical things.
We could have.

I can’t do everything in one lifetime.
I want to be a writer— a poet, and yet I’d like to explore the stars, discover planets.
I’d like to act in every big-name movie, but I’d also love to sing my heart out in meaningless songs that others can’t quite comprehend.
I’d like to move countries, change my name, forget my old self— but I also want to embrace who I truly am, at my core.
Time.
There never seems to be enough of it.
If only we were given several lifetimes to figure ourselves out, to breathe life at its purest form, and see our souls in the way we know is right.
If only we could glimpse the countless endings hidden in every small beginning.

sadness comes in droplets.
from the sky, from your eyes, they fall.
over and over, time and time again.
wetting the ground, streaking your face
until a puddle grows into a sea.

grains
of sun

untied laces
of snow

urgent shadows
of birds

perfect shards
of stars

they are parceled out
in increments

of wonder
divvied up

in morsels
of joy

Someone listened.
Someone cared.
And I was not alone
With my fears and tears
And emptiness
For one night.