So long ago,
yet so close.
The impression of you still so deep in my mind,
yet I remember so little.
Do you think of me
as I, you?
As so few
have bothered to care for me
as I did, you.

What could have been,
what may have been,
what should have been,
had I only spoke,
only mustered myself
and asked.

Yet no.
Weak.
Coward.
Afraid.
And years later, it's still the same.
Years later, it still hurts.

That pit in the stomach,
the pain of the soul.
When I reach for your impression,
testing the waters
the pain returns.
The cycle perpetuated
over and over
just so I know that I felt it,
so I can hope that I can feel it again.
Someday.
Anyday.
When?

The pain stops.
It will come again.
The feelings we never shared,
never spent together,
perhaps never existed,
still lingers.
Your impression,
still there, always.

When will the cycle end?
The pain stop?
The pit fill?

Your impression,
still there. Still waiting.
The pain returns.