what if it’s May and i miss you?
what if i miss you?
what if it’s May,
and you’re not here with me?
what if your hoodie’s still tucked,
deep in my cupboard,
the one that holds your scent,
still lingers in its threads,
helping me sleep through the night,
calming me down,
as i hold it like you’re still here?
what if i still remember,
every little thing?
what if i still dream of you,
even though the years have drifted by?
what if i’ve learned better,
yet still ache for your touch?
what if i open my notes,
find the sketches, the drawings of you,
snapshots of my youth,
of the soft, naïve love,
i once gave so freely?
what if the truest love i ever felt,
was the one i felt for you?
what does that make me?
how can i claim i don’t care,
when the sight of you,
even just a trace,
makes me pause,
fall silent,
and remember it all?
how come something so short,
left something this deep?
how come, even now,
though i know better,
you still live in my thoughts,
while i sit here,
quiet,
and you,
you don’t even think of me?
i guess that’s what’s really pathetic.