who said the only transgressions one truly regrets,
in the end, are the ones one forgets to commit?
Who would have guessed that here—
halfway through my life—
I find myself, having
accomplished nothing of which I dreamed
as a child. I still remember
smoking one cigarette after another
outside that bar with, Jesus,
what the hell was her name? And there
in the shadows, I could feel her
wanting nothing more than to surrender—
that sensual gravity, two objects
in orbit—but I
I snuffed out my cigarette
and strolled to the car, knowing you and I
were different, way beyond that feral,
vulgar betrayal. Even now,
cataloguing the bodies of strangers seems
poor compensation for the sacrifice
of one's honor. But, this is not
a requiem to youth, but
a eulogy for the man I never became. Yes,
I will never be an Olympic
figure-skater, but still I imagined
my life to be something noble, not just
a random collection of dissipating ions, but essential,
like clouds. I never dreamed
I'd spend the weeks struggling
to get to the next week. If I
could go back and speak
to myself—that cocky little fuck—
the things I'd tell him. Of course, he'd
never listen.
He hated people like me.