It’s not just you that I miss,
though I miss you so,
more than you’ll ever know.
It’s who I could have been
had you let me stay,
had you changed me in your way.
Like a collapsing wave
killing futures in its wake,
rippling the calmest of lakes,
That fake maybe self,
a faint fantasy at best,
shadows and echoes abreast.
The romantic mind,
addled and wonting,
impressed by ghosts and given to haunting,
Is tainted with your image,
and the promises thereof:
a me much finer than a me so rough.
One day I’ll find happiness,
and love too I suppose.
A matter of time in a large enough dose.
What I may never find, however,
for I clearly lack the nerve,
is the man I could have been, the man that you deserve.