Regret is an empty pill box in the attic of your mind

A scarred rocking horse inlaid with memory

the shoes you never wore, still in their crisp red paper

when it rains, birds who never knew us, fill trees with their squabble

you took my love away with yours, you filleted feeling and trod down heavy

you made me old, you made me bitter, when you turn to ice, the moon bequeaths new language

it is said nobody can make you feel bad unless you give them permission

I poured my permissions into you, year after year, cogitation a hot rinse

until love became a sore that never scabbed or dried

scarred shiny skin without substance, easy to break, lending notions of wholeness

if you turned me sideways, I curled translucent, poorly repaired

the bloodline of transient making, ashen fallacy

taught from an early age to pursue the escapee of my heart

I chased you until my feet bled and I learned how to do without

in prayer, I knelt on scabbed knees and begged

conscience to strangle your deceitful arc

make a promise and keep it, save us

from the despised wrung out dawn

when we realize, nothing as sodden

and cold as us, will ever, ever dry in storms.