Regret

Sometimes
I would like
to
smash the ocean
with my fists
until
it resembles
something
less
star-woven:
___flat___
like
I am.

The sky
is
bleeding
into
the sea
as wisps
of you
are
receding
from
me.

I’ve been here
before—
on nights
crack.ling;
crack.ed wide
like
bread crusts
or thunder.

Spread out
against
a backdrop
of skies
broken up
by leaves,
an ethereal
symphony
indeterminately
weaves.

___

(I recalled
the rhythms of
you
and the
sync.o.p.ations
of us
and how
silent smiles
popped
as your lips
parted—
until
they just
didn’t,
anymore.

I came
looking
for you,
once.

I thought that
in
your stardust
footfalls,
I
could discover
you,
again.

I wanted to find
the exact place
where
green
met
blue;
I had this
feeling
that
that’s
where I’d
find
you.)

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2 thoughts on “Regret

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