the seeds, the trees

"But once in a while there's a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, 'I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.'" – Richard Bach

Tag: regret

All of my lives

Today I have lived 900 lives. Thousands and thousands of days since the sun came up.

This morning, I awoke in the middle of a dream, full of regret. I had cut out my eyes. Everything the colors of bruises.

Tonight, I end my 900th life with a thought of you. A thought that I might never forget you. A thought that you might forget me.

I hope to see you when I fall asleep.

When we meet, you will give back everything I gave you, kiss my bloody eyelids and tell me you will always love me first.

When I awake tomorrow, I will be whole, ready to hurt for another lifetime, again and again and again.


I Still

I still call you. Some think so I can still hold power over you. I don’t think so. I still love you, is all. But this love is different now. I must love you with no pretense of acting on it or the consequences of not. You are an idea I love. You are this story. I text you, “Will you marry her?” And you’re answer is always, “No.” But whenever I call, you’re mashing her potatoes and cooking her steak. I picture you standing in your beige kitchen with the bottle of Jack by the sink and the fan on while you smoke. I see her tiny leopard print sandals with the fake diamonds on the straps, so tiny, on the sad beige carpet. I remember folding her PINK sweatpants while I did your laundry in your apartment the day after I came to have lunch with you and stayed the whole week while she was in rehab. You cried when I left. You begged me to stay. I wanted to, to stay with you in that ugly beige apartment, locked away from everything that could make anything harder.

“If I moved there would you be with me?” “Only one way to find out.” When my own love saw that, he said he thought his head was going to explode. All I could say was I’m sorry because I didn’t want to hurt him. But I couldn’t say I was sorry I had said the words at all. I couldn’t pretend that they were never there. It used to work.

I love you. I still love you. Why doesn’t that mean anything anymore? Why doesn’t that bring me to my feet, to your door, to you, why doesn’t that bring you to me? Why does it just live there? Existing on its own, like a piece of bridge floating in the water. Utterly useless. It could go on forever. We could go on forever. Maybe that is why I let myself keep loving you. To preserve us, untouched and perfect in this story. So that when I die I can tell myself I have known perfect love. I am a fucking selfish fool, but you have always known that and loved me still.


I am 25 years old and I have 50 regrets. Thirty of them are about you. I used to wander lost but now I am too found. I used to live in deafening darkness but now I stand frozen in the light. Now I know everything is shit and stone.  And money can’t buy happiness but without money you have no freedom and freedom is joy, pure joy, bliss, pure bliss. I thought I felt that once. Now I’m not sure. I pretend to be sure. So I have something to look forward to while I pace in this wonderful, beautiful cage by the water with the hammock that sways in the breeze – what a playpen I have. No need for hunting, the fridge is always full of everything I like, and there are always avocados. Here smells delicate and sweet and warm. Except when it’s hot, then here it is perfectly cool. You would love it. I’ve watched so many sunsets I do not see. I do everything the same over and over again. I forget there is anything outside of this gate. I forget why I stayed. I forget why I came. I sleep.

You called me

 You called me because we were meant to get lunch one day soon. Just Friends. Even though we used to be best friends, even though we used to wake up together always, even though you loved me more than I loved myself, even though I think I made a mistake when I said, “Go,” even after you cut off your hair because I said I was cold.

Through the plastic and wires I could see your face in my head but only your sad face, the one with big, dark, empty eyes and a small, frozen mouth, the one you wore after I told you, years and years ago now, that I had slept with someone else.

And I heard my own sad voice and you kept saying, “What?” and asking me about friends I don’t talk to anymore, and then I said, “I’m getting tired. I’m gonna go,” and you started to say, “It’ll be OK,” but then you said, quickly, “Bye,” and we didn’t make plans to see each other.

That was the first time we’d spoken in a year after speaking every day for five years.

I don’t think I’ll see you again and my heart is an endless hole with wind whistling over it and trash swirling around and there’s nothing at the bottom and nothing on the way down.