He likes to collect regrets.
He thinks he’s human that way.
He surrounds himself with them,
and reminds himself constantly
by engaging them
in casual conversation,
keeping them painfully close
as if they weren’t regrets,
but hopes.
As if it weren’t winter,
but spring.
I guess he feels safe among them
because with them,
the time for action is past
and remembering
can’t change a thing,
least of all the status quo.
That’s how much he loves himself
not realizing
all he had to do
was stand up for one
and he’d have a real life
instead of
a makeshift existence
eclipsed by the things
he didn’t do
while it mattered,
a hermit
of a loneliness
of his own doing
with a gallery of regrets
sitting around his house
like expensive furniture.

Get my face off your wall.
Delete my number from your phone.
Give me back my compass,
my Yamazaki chopsticks
and the freedom
of my dreams.
I refuse to be an accomplice
in your synthetic heroism.
I no longer have love for you.
I have nothing but contempt for you.