If I die tomorrow
This will I regret:
That you and I have never met.
That we have not shared our sorrows
And discovered common joys,
Or seen ourselves reflected
In each other’s eyes.
That we have never bickered about trifles
And agreed about the things that matter,
Like closeness, faithfulness, and compromise.
That my lips have never known your cheek,
And my hand never held your hand,
Or touched your breasts, your hips, your thighs,
Or played with your hair.
That we did not have the opportunity to be
Vegetarians at table
And cannibals in bed.
That we have not died together every night
And every morning been reborn,
On the same pillow,
Nose tips touching,
My arm around your neck,
Your hands under the sheets
Mischief on your lips.
That we have never ridden a tandem bicycle on a summer road,
Or sailed a boat,
Or climbed a snowy peak.
That we have not discussed God and politics,
In the tub while scrubbing each other’s backs.
That we have not added up one plus one
To make three or four or five,
Or purchased baby clothes at a discount shop.
That we have not suffered back pains,
Or calculated our retirement funds,
Or lived to see our heads turn grey.
That after decades of a shared romance
We have not crept away,
To a forest dark,
Under a witchy tree,
Where we allowed ourselves to be
The victims not of hemlock
Or of a suicide pact,
But of understanding, love, and trust.