the love not taken

Morning shines bright, but the wind –
so cold – blows right through me.
I am remembering
how warm I used to be
with you, and wondering:
do you ever think of me?

Do you picture me young, the
wispy girl I was then,
or burdened with gray and
pounds . . . . You can’t imagine.
Do you forget, or do
you regret what might have been?

Like a new moon of lost dreams
am I your mind’s shadow?
Do I linger, hover,
flit-float like a vapor,
blur, obscure, tint, color,
come like a breath of Spring
(mere scent through open windows)?