I think of you somewhere far away.
The distance is so insignificant
on the grand universal scale.
How can we enjoy the path life leads
if we are terrified of the distance?

Regret is a concept of the feeble-minded,
a frantic gasp for fresh air
as you drown in panic-stricken sorrow.
A fingertip on your lips at The Moment,
when everything seems to stop,
when the TV noise becomes Mozart,
when her eyes become the Fountain of Youth.
Then you realise you’re dreaming
and the scene changes with no remorse.

When I held her head as she died,
I couldn’t help but look back
at what had been and what never was.
Our conversations for the month prior
were nothing more than broken syllables
and hiccoughed sobs and tears wiped.
The fractured words of ones who used to love
are such mesmeric wonders of futility
that the stony-hearted melt and weep.
They sit on the air,
wasps without their sting,
pathetic things with no hope.

The tree she died under is gone,
replaced by concrete crypts of disjointed families,
arguing over everything, loving over nothing,
the nurturing replaced by greed, jealousy, and suspicion.
I realise only now I much I loved you,
after all the words I said,
the lies I spoke to make myself feel better,
the lies I told myself,
that I was happiest when I was alone.
It just wasn’t true.
I loved you then. I miss you now,
sweet lips in twine.

I used to remember my dreams in the morning.
Now, I don’t even think I dream at all.
All I can remember is trying to fall asleep,
eventually succumbing after hours of clamouring,
wrenching the pillow and gripping the duvet between my teeth.
Then, I wake up, and it’s daytime,
and the birds are singing
and the sun is shining
and the air is sweet
and I can’t smell you.
I can’t touch you.
I can’t…

When you died, I was faced with a choice;
to carry on and cope,
or let my veins and come to you.
In any other circumstance, the answer would be obvious,
but when someone is face-to-face with mortality,
logic and reason disappear
with the light in the black storms of her pupils.

If you’re faced with a two-way choice,
all you need to do is flip a coin.
It works not in that it settles the matter,
but in that brief moment
when the coin is in the air,
you suddenly know what you are hoping for.
this is a damn good poem in my opinion. that last stanza rang so so true for me. well done
here, My Dear, here it is
i don't like 'grand' as an adjective.
otherwise, this develops very well, and the ending is great.