I tore her wings to shreds,
the street was littered with feathers
like blood flowing down the road;
an image of poetry
more perfect than has ever been written.
I know, because she felt the pain
of that singular gesture.
Later, she sang Lana Del Ray’s
“Video Games” to me as I sat on her bed,
she gave me that look of hers,
that melts the heart and chills the soul.
I held her as we sang City and Colour’s
“Coming Home” in the crowd at The Marquee
and we took a picture together
that no one will ever see,
like the pictures we took that night
that we played Monopoly,
with a pair similar to ourselves.
It ended with me leaving her
on the side of the road,
her screams echoing in the early morning darkness,
the threats still vibrating in my bones.
I got a letter later,
after she asked to share a cigarette with her,
a cigarette I refused to share.
In the letter she said she had someone to love her now,
that she was okay
that she was happy
and that it was time for me to move on with life,
to let go of the past and the future that would never be.
She never wrote that she loved him,
but she told me that I might not want to read what she had penned.
I saved that letter,
hid it from anyone that might look for it
and though I may never look at her writing again
I know that she has more words
that she wants me to read,
even if I am now blind to their message.
Regret
