regret, like clothes that don’t fit properly, like a window with a draught, a blister that won’t heal, impossible to ever quite forget. it exists in me just under the surface of my skin, an itch that I can never reach, a tremor of a memory, that mourns the paths I could have taken. but, even mired in might-have-beens, there’s a road that can be seen this one. here. now. and I still don’t know where it goes or what may lie ahead.
