i shut my eyes and:
if you came
back, sorry
between your lips;
leftover fingerprints
of pride's embrace
all around you.
but you left pride
a while ago,
nonetheless.
and maybe
that would be enough
for me, for us.
because i have been
waiting for you
to come home.
and it's the whispers
of my heart
to the shooting stars;
and for the residue
of what we gripped
inside our palms
to never turn into
'what should have been's,
and instead into
'what will be,'
'what waits,'
smiles of the near and distant
future.

and i closed my eyes:
maybe this one time
i wouldn't make it right
because we would make it past.
i thought.

i thought.

that would be enough;
but reality was
late to the meeting.
and when i handed
my heart to you
eons ago,
you didn't place
your faith into
my arms.
reality was
late to the meeting.
because when i waited
for you to come home,
you did not.
for you liked the past
more than the present;
and that's where home
locates to you.
for the shooting stars
was deaf to my cries.
and the residue of what we had
had already turned into
'should have been's and
'will never be's.

there will still be smiles
in the near and distant
future;
but it will not be my smile
next to yours,
nor my smile carved by you.