The dream of us on the hill

You’ll never know the ‘me’ I came to be –

my mind, minutiae and filigree –

we’ll never share a witty repartee

or get to stand in solidarity.

Your being there was not a guarantee,

such is the way of our reality;

dependency, and then an absentee,

but here we are inside my memory.

You’re coloured by the words of family

in cherished stories and photography

that paint a picture of our parity

and parallel my personality.

The others’ thoughts and their hyperbole,

describing each idiosyncrasy,

are not enough to bring you back to me,

but here we are inside my memory.

You’re not around to field an enquiry;

I ask you why, you answer silently.

The motive in that moment, mystery

we’ll never even get to disagree.

You’ll never see potentiality,

or the effects of your calamity,

or, in my eyes, familiarity,

but here we are inside my memory.

I’ll never be the head of industry,

a Nobel, Oscar, Tony nominee,

and though content with mediocrity,

you’ll never share my pride or misery.

You missed my childhood and maturity,

the tooth and claw of my obscurity,

my merriment and every malady,

but here you are inside my memory.

My life and love and loss you’ll never see,

my many ups and downs, my apogee,

my hell, my high, lament, and levity,

my own attempt when I was twenty-three.

Had I a spell or opportunity,

the past would passage by identically.

For though you’ll never know what came of me,

I love you, still, inside my memory.