With someone else I might have had a child.

He might have had one, too.
              (I tuck the thought away.)

My beloved child, imagined so repeatedly I can see
              curls in her hair, a defiant stance.
She is small and mighty,
              thus literary and not mine.

With each other we wrestle with love and regrets

The tiny aches that bloom and die and bloom again.

Will always bloom again.