The Price I Pay

I knew you were the one the first day I met you.

Beautiful; you were always my favorite view.

But you were the mansion; I was the trailer park.

My parents said it wasn't enough to have the spark;

"you need money to keep a girl like that happy forever."

So with the promise of coming back and being together,

I went searching for gemstone mines and streets of gold,

and instead found rabbit holes leading to days so cold.

When I threw in the towel and returned,

I was too late and found that the world still turned.

We were both gray and brittle bones,

bitter with life and yelling at our phones.

We're stuck in the same pre-funeral home

trapped with the shadow of Death and nostalgia syndrome,

until I was holding your hand as you exhaled for the last time

and I apologized for committing my greatest crime:

"I should have chosen you, instead of chasing piles of money

like they were worth more than hearing you call me honey,

holding hands in the park, picnic dinners under a starry sky,

watching our grandchildren, and laughing until we cry."

Now being haunted by what could've been if only I chose to stay

is now the price I have to pay.