regret
[ri-gret]
/rɪˈɡrɛt/
noun. the lump in your throat that arrived when she left

I ***** stanzas -
I spew literary clutter
My poetry is aimless
The words all muddled

I write unsharpened
The point pressed pointless
A fire smoldering with no tinder
The universe questions its existence

Like smoke you dance in my daydreams,
Beckoning me with **** me eyes and a lazy grin
An orange hue sunsetting your fire,
The curl of your finger saying come hither

And I wake from this like fire into water
I watch you twirl slower and slower
Into steam, you disappear like the wind
and with resignation again I'll dream

I wonder if you know how it's like to be irrevocably aching. I wonder if you understand when I stumble out a club at 4 on a Saturday, my hands filled with her and my head filled with you. I wonder if you can tell that I am spineless even when I am inebriated, that sobriety only brings back a lump in the throat that came when you left like a sick, sick, sick replacement. I wonder all these things, and sometimes I don't have to wonder, because I know you don't, not a little bit, not at all.

We met when summer was dying and over the flutter of their wings you couldn’t hear the birds sing.

The breeze in the night couldn’t cool me down long enough to stay away, but still you were worried.

You were right.

I left when fall came, letting the chill set in and seep through your skin.

I strayed, but not far enough to not notice your heart wither and curl up like so many golden leaves.

I have written enough to fill libraries about you.
I have painted enough to fill a museum or two.
I tried capturing worlds with words and universes with brushstrokes and everything in-between.
Did you know there are over a million words in the English language? And only 10 million shades can the human eye see.
I didn’t. It took your presence to realize there were so few words to describe your eyes,
And your absence made me notice every shade of gray caught in the damp morning light.
Flowers will grow from the dirt beneath my ribs and the world will die a million times over before I forget to write about you.
I hope you don’t stay forever, but I pray my words do.

It ached. I remembered you, and it ached.
I walked where our feet treaded, my sneakers in sync with the prints we had left in my memory.
I held her hand, and thought about how warm yours felt that first night our lips touched.
The smell of strawberries coming from her hair suffused the chill night air, and I couldn’t help but compare how similar it was to the flowery aroma of yours.
Almost angrily I pulled her chin up, and stared deep into brown eyes that looked so much like yours;

I kissed her,

And it didn’t ache anymore.