I sometimes see the other me, 
The one (I think) I used to be, 
Who lived in rooms with fewer things 
And suffered deeper, sharper stings. 

I see him sometimes out to eat 
Where pleasure, although rare or fleet, 
Was always full experienced 
Though less than quite luxuriant. 

I feel for him: his wayward heart, 
His strong ideals, his halting start 
To all that life might give, or not, 
And what he had with nothing bought. 

The other me was kind, and cruel, 
And lost in search of hope for fuel, 
But who knew love and songs and friends 
And leapt from fault to quick amends. 

I sometimes hear the other me, 
Him laughing with expectancy 
For lives I've never lived, and won't, 
And what he will both do and don't 

For all we are and were is one. 
Our choices? Guesses, and when done, 
Leave us with joy and grief in gift 
For lives both known and yet

Unlived