for the Girl Who Stayed Young When I Didn’t

I regret not fighting hard enough for her,

she died young, and I kept getting older,

now I live in the memory of her.

We carved a blood oath, childish but sure,

believing forever meant something bolder,

I regret not fighting hard enough for her.

Her years stopped moving, cruel and abrupt, pure,

while mine advanced, moving faster harder,

now I live in the memory of her.

I thought I had time, that time could defer,

that growing up wouldn’t turn into a shoulder,

I regret not fighting hard enough for her.

She is frozen at nineteen, a constant blur,

a ghost with no future I can’t shoulder,

now I live in the memory of her.

I age, she doesn’t; the fact is a spur

driving guilt sharper, heavier, older.

I regret not fighting hard enough for her,

now I live in the memory of her.