What could've been.

There's no album
with you in it;
And a stretch of blank wall
where you'd have stood.

And the world
that would have bits of you,
with all these people who'd know you;
things you'd have touched
and hated and been mad about.

all the things,
that could go missing from the fridge,
from the hidden jars;
the stash of smokes
in the drawer;
the secrets in our diary.

the guy you'd leave red-faced
after school,
in that lane behind your house

all the weird accents you'd take on,
the phases you'd go through;
how you'd make me cry in fear
of you getting out of hand;
all the boys we'd hate because of you.

the guy you'd meet at the library,
who'd love Chaucer and Bronte too,
and sappy pop songs;
with his stupid hair,
how we would all be unsure
and how he'd turn out to be the one

the huge stuffed chair
with gaudy flower prints
that you got cheap;
and the pictures on the walls,
wood-framed, amateurish;
and all the decor I wouldn't approve of
and you'd be proud about.

that part in the face
of two little girls
you could've mothered;
that bend to their crooked smiles,
the brown of their eyes,
and the freckles, among so much else.

and so,
all the little things
in the world
that'd have bits of you
are missing.

There's a blank wall where
you should've been.
And there's no album at all.