If you had loved me,

you would have stayed.

You would have been here,

complaining about the weather,

rather than thousands of miles away

sipping tea under a rainy English sky.



If you had cared,

you would have been here

for birthdays

for Christmas,

for concerts,

smiling out of the darkness,

suffering through two hours of nervous teenagers

desperately struggling through Beatles' medleys.



If I really mattered,

you would know how tall I am,

that I hate pre-calculus,

that I have your eyes.



If I really meant that much to you,

you wouldn't have to ask me now

how old I am.