I have uncovered that there is no word that holds more sorrow than potential.
Fate lies as only an unwitting alibi,
Malice only a valcher in its wake.
Potential is the reaching, unavoidable canyon in the soul,
So very tainted and saddened for things that never existed.
It is a pitiful nostalgia for words never spilt to the floor.
For the kisses that never stained the lips.
For the fingers that never brushed the skin,
With the electricity that was never felt.
For the places that were empty of you.
Potential, I have found,
Is a human construction.
Sinisterly designed to haunt you with who you are,
Remind you of who you are not,
And the vast, treacherous difference between the two.
-
(I mourn you in all the things we had not been,
I mourn you in all the places we had not seen.)
