I wish you’d read the poetry
you inspired, when I’m gone
And then you’d know the misery
you caused me for so long.
And guilt would then turn to constrict
your chest in blatant fear;
for you cannot at all predict
the hearts you’ll break next year.
“I wish I’d done” will be the phrase
your heart never lets rest.
Divine the future you shall raze
if your path isn’t blest.
And in all this, recall: Before,
it was my love which you ignored.