Things You Can't Have
Inner peace, all-encompassing contentment
Letting go without a trace of resentment
Kissing my mom's hand again, seeing her smile
Making Heaven on Earth last longer than a while
A dog whose lifespan is as long as they deserve
Falling in love and not getting hurt
A week without misspeaking
A year without feeling sick
Knowing what the Creator's scheming
How Their OCD makes everything tic
Making your answer matter when your dad asks
"Did I ever tell you the story..."
Warming up a sociopath's heart
Saddling up on meteors storming
These are all things you can't have
Things that won't happen or you can't do
But I'm aiming for all of them anyway
and sweetheart, so should you
This poem feels like someone quietly emptying their pockets of all the impossible hopes they still carry, even when life has told them “no” a thousand times. Each line holds a small wound missing a mother’s touch, wanting love without fear, wishing dogs lived as long as our devotion to them. You can feel the ache of wanting a body that doesn’t betray you, a voice that never stumbles, a world where tenderness lasts. The references to fathers, creators, sociopaths, meteors they stretch from the intimate to the cosmic, as if longing itself has no boundaries. What makes the poem deeply human is its honesty about how much we want what we can’t have, and how we keep wanting anyway. There’s a softness in the way the speaker admits these desires without shame. The final lines turn all that impossibility into a kind of quiet courage. In the end, the poem becomes a hand on your shoulder, whispering that reaching for the unreachable is part of being alive.