Within the museum of forgotten hours
Where shadows dance and darkness cowers
There's an exhibit of what's been undone
A showcase of the paths we've never won

Within the garden of what's been left behind
Where petals drop and flowers unwind
There's a fragrance that still lingers on
A scent of what could've been, but never was known

Whatever is left, it whispers low
A secret language only known to few
A dialect of longing and regret
A whispered promise of what we'll never get