How does it feel—
me, a counterfactual you.
You,
world-weariness as armor,
begrudging my wonder,
calling it naïveté.
I chose it.
Over and over.
Stopped waiting for closure—
made it. Stopped longing for change—
hunted it down.
So tell me—
How do you feel,
rehearsing every woe,
when you had
my hand,
my voice,
my choice?