Mourning

How strange it is to mourn the death
Of a version of myself that only existed
In a fragmented state within my head.

Things that might have been
Never quite materialized into being
And are more apparition than body.

So very often, the choices made
At the crossroads seem to follow me
Taunting me with all that passed me by.

How peculiar it is that invisible strangers
Can both look and speak like me
With a hand outstretched to lead me away!

Their familiarity wraps me up tight
In a warmth that feels like forever home
Until I remember that home never felt safe.

As if I were watching the lowering body
Of a long suffering, beloved friend,
I weep for the parts of myself left behind to die.