the hardest part of it is this:
you never told him,
and now you never will.
you hope he knew;
you think he must have,
but you can never be sure.
there are so many things
you wish you had said,
like how his eyes were so blue
you thought you'd drown in them
and how his arms were more a
home than your house has ever been
and how, though you're only
a little thing,
he didn't make you feel small.
you are not the same as you were
and by his will or not,
there is no going back.
you are too big now, for this place,
and you left your heart with him,
buried beneath layers of stone
you close your eyes at night
and see his face, and when you wake,
you feel that you could almost
touch him, and you remember
his hand cooling in yours,
and the eagles came and it was
not enough, not enough, and
you want to rage and scream
and shout at the cruelty of it all
but in the end, you weep
and you curse yourself for
staying silent, and you wonder:
if you'd revealed your heart,
would the end have been different?
or would you be here still,
mourning the life you should have had,
drinking tea with a ghost?