regrets

There’s no one left to talk to, so I mostly talk to myself. There’s no one to write to either, so these are all the letters I send. Be careful with your connections. There’s no telling what is getting through. Shuffle the words and deal again. It’s not really a meal if no one eats. The places set in memoriam, the uninvited guests that crowd the gate, the hats passed around. Nothing ventured, again and again. 

There’s worse to come. There always is. But lately the days have been plenty bad enough, with the nights making it a competition. Can’t be me, and it seems the only option. Can’t live like I live, and death won’t oblige. No matter how strong you are, never agree to hold up the sky. Once you’re beneath the burden, no one else will ever shoulder it again. 

There’s so much left unfinished, so much left I will never do. You miss out on a lot when you spend a lifetime going crazy. Just bills and ill considered correspondence in dusty boxes, letters never to be read again. An accumulation of debts that cannot be repaid and failings that only grow more damning. Letters that I should have ended with, instead of love or yours truly, regrets on the signature line.