Regret is like an illness,
bile rising in the throat,
except through tears
that will not banish bruised perplexity
or right the foreseen wrong
of thinking I had time.
Even then (so long ago)
I knew your days were short
but I made you my rock, my given,
Too wrong to be my only.
Too dear to kill the love.
I could commit my heart but not my life.
Forever needs more than chemistry.
So I trusted you to understand
my new allegiance
and my silence.
And now I look for clues in pixels
and speak as though
the answers will be offered.
These meager measures serve me not at all.
For what haunts my quiet moments
and nibbles at the edges of my thoughts
is the outlandish notion
that you are gone
and I never told you my heart.
This was written for Three Word Wednesday, Poets United and for M.A..