823. Untitled

[hes]

It's that faint hint of bitterness
that colours the first taste --
a subtle reminder of impossibilities
and broken dreams
that somehow
were never put away.

That tinge of disappointment
that reminds us
of the choices made
that never came to fruition.

As if a moments' sigh
was of equal measure
to a facade shattered
in the past.

It's a silent anguish
against "what might have beens"
and "could have, would have, should haves" --
as if the sardonic
were a shield for the weary.

It's emptiness
and a shell --
filled by desperation
and conflicting needs and wants --
to fill the body
but never the soul.

It's drowning in solitude
yet surrounded by good intentions.
Dreaming during the day,
only to watch them die by night.