If I had valued life,
Cherished it,
Kept it in the outermost pocket over my heart,
Then I wouldn’t have done it.

If I had adored it,
Like she said she adored me,
Then I wouldn’t be shattered dreams
Across split canvas.

If I had loved life,
Like I loved her,
Then I wouldn’t be a statistic on the news:
A forgotten memory.

If I thought life was precious,
Just as she was to me,
Then I could feel and touch and breathe,
Stale wind passing through broken lungs.

If I gazed upon life with compassion,
With bright eyes, unbroken,
Then I wouldn’t have scaled the 73 stairs,
And tore myself from the railing.

If.

If I doted on life
Like a mother with her child,
Then I wouldn’t have leaped,
Feeling the wind beneath my wings,
And the sky between my fingers.

Then.

If she loved me like I did her,
And hadn’t rejected me,
Then the pavement would still be gray,
And pure,
As I once was.

If. Then.

The hypothesis of living.