Could Have Been

The pages are empty, and yet they still taunt me with invisible words.

I saw her writing in this book everyday,

I've seen the sketches and doodles and portraits-

they were beautiful, though not as magnificent as their creator.

But these pages are blank,

have been since that day,

And yet, I still see,

I still see,

Everything that could have been.

And it is beautiful,

the poetry that could have touched these pages,

Had she decided to stay in that day,

Had she decided to curl up on the couch,

With her blanket, and her wine, and this book she so loved-

Maybe, had she decided to stay in,

I could have actually seen these words,Instead of the taunting blankness of could-have-been.