This is for all the people I’ll never meet.
This is for the person I might have kissed had I taken a different subway line
on Saturday and the person I might have been
if that boy hadn’t broken my mother’s teenage heart.
This is for the people I would have loved if last winter hasn’t been so cold and for the city
I would have called home if I had written haikus on napkins
and carried pens in dress pockets and in the knots of my hair.
This is for who I was, who I am, who I might be.
This is for you.