what if I had told Iris the truth that night?
what if, when she looked at me with her pink-stained lips and said,
"who's Hazel?"
I didn't say
"just a friend",
but instead—
"I love her."
and what if I had broken up with her right there?
what if I chose you?
we'd have moved into a shitty apartment—
the kind where we had to argue about whose turn to take out the trash,
but always end up doing it together anyway.
we'd live simply.
you'd cook me English breakfast,
even though you hate sausages,
because I loved it.
and I'd pack your bento when you're too busy with your next book deadline.
there would be a tiny music room.
a bass you rarely played.
my dusty guitar.
your piano.
and we'd write music that no one would hear but us.
you'd teach me a little Japanese—
"おはよう,僕の太陽"
and you'd laugh because my accent's crap
but you'd still kiss me after.
you'd talk to my mother on the phone longer than I ever did.
you'd send her recipes.
and for once, she'd call someone her daughter,
not just "her son's girlfriend."
you'd drag my sister to the market every Saturday.
you two would gossip about our nosy neighbour
or that batshit aunt who always wore neon skirt.
and four years later,
on a cold February morning,
you'd wear that silk grey dress.
I'd wait at the altar,
finally believing in marriage.
and you'd walk to me,
slow, glowing,
with those same hazel eyes
that ruined my entire world
the day I met you.
but none of that happened.
because I didn't choose you.
I said,
"She's just a friend."
And lost
everything.