To those I could have loved, but didn't-

To the man at the bar
who held my hand
for a breath of a moment -
that whiskey was mine,
and we both chose
our own poisons
to carry us 
to our graves.
Yours was sweeter
when held in ice -
mine was as bitter, as dry,
as a Summer’s heat.

To the girl in the desk
beside my own -
you were an enigma
that my mind
sought to uinravel.
I followed you
through classes
and ghosted
through the halls
in hopes of catching
a glimpse of you:
I never did.

To the child
ripping flowers
from their own roots:
I loved you, too,
long, long, ago,
when my heart was forgiving
and my fingers kind.
Now I think you a murderer,
but I’d still press your hands
between my own
and hope that time
would rewrite our stories.

To you, yes, you,
reading the breaking
in the lines of my story.
I’ve loved too fondly
to ever be afraid
of loss.
Yet here I rest,
a broken soul,
counting the change 
in my pockets
to pay the rent
in my chest-
I’m spent,
and here I rest,
a broken man
living on poetry.