Member-only story
Poetry
Regrets
It’s true what they say. You don’t only regret the things you did,
you regret the things you didn’t do: the conversation left unsaid,
the lips left unkissed, the man who met your eyes just before
you looked away. You only get one chance, one look,
one fleeting pause to fill before the moment is gone.
Take the chance. Say the words. Make the connection.
Lean in.
I missed out on the Steves who slipped through my fingers,
and a tall unnamed guy who wore suede jackets with elbow patches,
and who was probably getting his M.A. in poetry. I like to imagine him
biking through Ireland, sleeping in strange barns and sipping Guinness in the local pubs, making the rosy-cheeked Irish girls swoon.
He could have whispered those sweet stories to me while we lay in bed on rainy days, after we moved to Portland, or a small town in Maine.
What if I’d let one of the Steves know how I felt around him,
as if I were wired on espresso before coffee was even a thing?
What if I’d taken his hand or leaned in to plant a kiss? What if
I’d looked Steve in the eyes and let him know that the answer would be yes? What if I’d snuck into…
