Feeding on Dreams that Never Lived

I keep brushing past lives I never lived.

The house with warm light never built.

The arms that never reached.

A table I set, but fed only scraps.

A version of me who offered warm embrace,

was secure without asking,

who loved without shying,

and laughed without hiding.

Sometimes I miss artificial dreams —

a fantasy never manifested.

And sometimes, that hurts more

than the ache for a friend,

more than the familiar lines on a face,

or the echo of a life never created.

I don’t grieve for people —

who rationed their warmth,

who justified betrayal,

who grinned at their beration.

I can’t want for people —

who seek cruel joy in their belittling,

who calculated love at their disposal;

those who cut me down

to build their dwindling reputation.

With integrity of pittance,

and loyalty of a vulture.

But still, I long to be inside

the world I thought we mustered —

the closeness I imagined.

I keep searching

for a place I swore was once provided —

a safety I invented,

that maybe I was foolish to feel;

… as I mistook it for belonging.