Flow

There is a very narrow river that divides the land of "shoulds" and the land of "wants", where it flows the waters of what it could have been.
On the right side I lay, scorched by the warmth of daily waitings.
On the wrong side you gaze,
splendid by the coolness of possibilities that will never have the chance to prove itself more than a dream.
And the waters of what it could have been flows.
To reach the other side seems just a matter of stretching your hands.
To reach you seems to be a matter of stretching back in time.
So close, yet so unreachable.
And the waters of what it could have been flows.