I regret not sitting down with you,

And holding your frail hand.

I regret just standing in the corner,

Watching you breathe,

And just giving the passing remark when I needed to.

I regret not telling you just how much I loved you,

And what exactly you meant to me.

But what I don’t regret is going,

Any chance there was to see you,

And standing in that corner for hours;

Studying your face.

Remembering your face.

But now, Saturday Mornings never happen,

And sitting in that garden feels lonely.

Even though the flowers still bloom,

And the apples are still growing;

It feels colourless and dead.

Where I once was content and at ease, is now a place of requiem and despair.

It’s coming up to Christmas now,

You said you’d be here for that;

And I looked forward to it.

But I won’t have that now.

What I still have are the memories,

The secrets,

The jokes.

But it’s getting harder to laugh when the best lines came from you,

And I’m struggling to remember your voice.