New Jeanland

Oh, how I would have loved you.

I would have known
how you took your coffee,
what weather made you restless,
which old wounds still ached
before the rain.

I would have loved you
past the beautiful beginning,
past mystery,
past hunger,
past the careful version of yourself
you offered at the door.

I would have loved
the unremarkable days,
the dishes in the sink,
your tired face in evening light,
the small irritations
that prove a life is shared.

I had so much tenderness
waiting to become routine.

But you left
while love was still a possibility,
and possibility
does not decay like memory.

It stays bright.
Unspoiled.
Almost holy.

Oh, how I would have loved you.

You will never know
what you were spared.