Had I met you in ruin, in madness, in despair—
perhaps then, we would have understood each other.
Had I found you when I was no longer trying to be good,
when I had nothing left to lose,
perhaps then, I could have loved you without fear.

But fate is cruel. It gives too soon or too late,
never when the soul is ready.
I met you when I still believed in hope,
when I still cared for the weight of consequence.
And so, I hesitated. I reasoned. I turned away.

Had I met you in the wreckage of myself,
I would not have thought of tomorrow.
I would not have measured my words,
held back my touch, silenced my longing.
I would have taken you—wholly, recklessly, without restraint.

But I met you at the right time,
when I still feared the cost of love.
And so, I lost you.