For all the things that are now gone, what I regretted the most are those that were not even given a chance.
The death of your favorite dandelion in a Summer rain, your muted favorite song in the audio, the spark of lightning that struck on a frozen lake, a love that ended without even started.
“Where did we go wrong?” I might I ask you for a moment, laughing — when we meet again at the old cathedral, one Sunday evening.
I will ask you for a cup of coffee, talk about what might happen if things did not happen or what might not happen if other things did happen.
If I waited for little longer, if I said a fewer words, if I became a little more patient, if I walked a little farther, would there be a promise kept?
It might feel awkward after sips, and I know it will. I might spoil things and say it again, “Where did we go wrong?”
Words would be between each breathe, heartbeats become so loud they deafen, and each tear from our eyes is a judgement of life and death.
At that day, you might be wearing your office dress you only dreamt about before, your glasses might have a higher grade, and your dreams may have come already.
Years may pass by and so many things may change; but then again, I might be the same child you met ten years ago. Still in love with your ponytails, your smiles, and your soul. And for once, I might spill the coffee and ask you for the last time, “can we make things right this time?”
