regret like the lumps of underdone carrots remain in my mouth for far too long.
this extra lung of pain cannot just dissipate, it ruminates to the contrary.
sometimes we dig our own graves.
i wish i had wanted to eat this soup as much as i wanted to make it.
the flowers all pop up in rows without me
and they don't even know.
that this fame and glory and guts has all been for naught.
i don't want to win.
i just want to rewind,
to the place
where i was in that brief moment when our eyes matched
with windows finally open to souls that were full
and on the same page.
for that one moment.
but i can't get that back
and i can't sit around wanting that back.
because it is not my chair
it is not my window
it is only my soul that is left
and i know this way well.
i have made my soup.
and now i must eat it.
tears and all.
if only they would come.