But who regrets love?
Who doesn't want to love?
Who has never had that feeling
Of lying on their bed alone,
On top of the covers,
With no one else at home?
Who has never stared
At the ceiling in the dark,
Watching that God-forsaken fan turning
So fast that they can't tell
One blade from another,
Seeing another blur they could live without?
Who has never seen the little chain hanging,
Shaking as uncertainly as
Their spirit these days?
Who has never remembered their voice,
The tone alone,
Saying "Someday you should just get
That **** fan fixed-"
And who has never wished,
Who has never wished
Those blades would cut the memory away,
All the while knowing that,
Like the heavy midnight air,
It isn't going anywhere?
Who has never turned onto their side
To watch the wall,
Considering it all through
An alarmclock's acidic blaze,
Hearing an uncle's, aunt's, cousin's,
Best man's, best friend's question again:
"Was it worth it?"
And who has never breathed
A thick little sigh in the dark, answering,
"...absolutely..."?