My arms are not long enough to reach.
My memory not clear enough to remember.
It’s yearning.
No,
it’s longing.
Somehow it’s stronger, more anxious.
My mind recounts it again and again.
To the point of fixation,
almost constraint.
Longing even, is too weak a word.
I find myself in the incessant search
for shoulds and coulds,
it hurts more than mere wanting.
It’s aching.
No,
even that word is wrong.
No,
it’s regret.