What Could You Do Differently? A Poetry of Reflection on Life, Love, and Time

What could you do differently?

I. I

I am the silhouette of yesterday,
A threadbare ghost caught in the spool of my own missteps.
Could I have waltzed differently—
A pirouette to the left, a skip to the right,
Instead of this straight path into the jaws of consequence?

I trace constellations on the backs of my hands,
Every line a vein, every vein a choice.
Could I have drawn them bolder?
Erased the timid strokes?

I carried myself like a suitcase without a lock,
Spilling pieces of me at every station.
Could I have packed better—
Folded my pride, compressed my anger,
Found room for forgiveness?

I am an echo asking the walls,
“What could I have done differently?”
But the walls shrug.
They are too busy holding me up.

II. You

You, with your honeycomb eyes,
Did you see the bees swarming in my heart?
Could you have told me that love stings—
But still drips sweet when the hive is whole?

You touched me with words sharpened like daggers,
Carving names I didn’t recognize into my skin.
Could you have whispered instead,
Blown dandelion seeds of kindness into the marrow of my soul?

You stood like a lighthouse but refused to turn your beam.
Could you have shined on my wrecked ship—
Even if only for a moment?

You were my mirror,
And I hated what I saw.
Could you have tilted the glass,
Shown me the light behind my flaws?

III. Time

Time, that unfaithful lover,
Slips through the cracks in my clenched fists.
Could you have lingered longer,
Kissed my youth with gentler lips?

I danced to your ticking,
A clockwork marionette,
But did I miss the rhythm,
The silent spaces between the beats?

You are the cruelest tutor,
Teaching lessons after the exam.
Could you have handed me the answers,
Before I stumbled through the questions?

Time, you relentless tide,
Washing away my castles of sand.
Could I have built them further from the shore?

IV. Life

Life is a crooked symphony,
And I, the musician, fumbled the notes.
Could I have tuned my strings,
Played softer, louder, or just…
Stopped for silence?

You gave me a canvas,
But I splattered paint like a child in chaos.
Could I have painted mountains instead of storms,
Rivers instead of tears?

Life, you are both feast and famine.
I ate greedily, but starved for meaning.
Could I have chewed slower,
Savored the bittersweet flavor of now?

You placed a labyrinth in my chest.
Could I have followed its twists differently,
Or was the minotaur always waiting for me?

V. Love

Love, you were the first poem I wrote,
And the first I tore apart.
Could I have read you aloud,
Before the ink ran dry?

You arrived like rain,
Soft on my window, then torrential.
Could I have stood in you longer,
Without looking for shelter?

I called you a fire,
But forgot that warmth and destruction share the same flame.
Could I have tended you better,
Kept the embers alive instead of letting them scorch?

Love, you are both a question and an answer.
Could I have asked the right questions—
Or listened more closely to your answers?

What Could You Do Differently?

The question stretches, elastic and unyielding,
Across the map of existence.
It folds into itself, a Mobius strip of regret and hope.
And yet, in its asking,
Lies the chance to begin again.

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