I regret what I do

every morning. The night whispered

seduction and there you were.

Open arms and open heart

ready to heal my scars. I regret

what I say every night

after I have said it,

but there I was

lonely and apart

from you.

I regret the way I let you in

those cracks

that day you made me pull over

and tell you what lay buried.

In the middle of the afternoon,

I regret what I am going to do

that night, because I know

fighting you is useless.

I fight the wine, the cigarettes,

the drugs enough, I fight the envy,

suburbia, the city

the cars, the traffic all day.

I fight the war inside my ancestors

struggling to breathe

in a city that drowns

in nostalgia and the past.

I fight the French, the Greeks,

the English,

este tabarnac,

I regret the fights,

the decisions

and still feel like

I made the right choice.

Most of all I regret

never seeing your face

and missing you

by just a few hours.

Everything else is a lie.

13 thoughts on “Regret

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