It’s not often that I regret the unwritten poems, the very ones I know should have been.

Not everything is light-bound. Clouds vanish, stones we lose along the way. Paths we don’t take anymore, not after a certain date, a storm. What might have been we name otherwise, and the even the pang we feel then will heal.

Sometimes it doesn’t take more than a few new names; labels on marmalade jars we peel off under the faucet (water too hot and nails too short).