—JUST SLIP ME ON, 

           I’LL BE YOUR BLANKET

 

  

                                         The Journal of Regret

                                                             

Even now, after all these years, I still see you float and bob, doll-like, reluctant yet resolved. 

In the other room, our dog howls your name, though the windows have no answer, and the panes merely tremble in response. 

I sit on the closet floor, every dresser drawer open, surrounded by colored hills of worn cotton, your favorite sweater pressed against my breath. 

          Every time I inhale, I smell flowers and dirt, unbreakable clods of regret with nowhere to bloom.