Fine winding whispers

On nights like this, I have an odd tendency to reminisce.

And I begin to wonder about the possibilities. About how we may have seen an entirely different outcome if I simply wasn't the person I used to be. About how I might have had a shot if only if I'd made more sense, been more mature, irritated less.

I'm not supposed to think like this. Things aren't what they used to be anymore. But each time I see your name, I remember the fallacies of my youth, the brashness of my tongue, the longing in my words.

And I only hope you remember me fondly.