Rushed and Incomplete V.
Other times it’s something else entirely.
But it never blossoms.
Because you are afraid,
Afraid that you aren’t who you used to be.
Afraid that for the first time, that’s a bad thing.
Afraid that you’ll find yourself six months from now
in the same place you’ve been so many times before.
It could be the flowers you are so fond of writing about.
If only you had the courage to lose yourself.
If only you had the courage to recede for the winter,
without the promise of sun in spring.
You can love a flower.
For the simple reason it can’t love you back.
You can still hurt a flower,
but not in the way you hurt a thing that loves you.
I never used to have regrets.
Sure, maybe I’d do some things better,
But not to the extent that I’m regretful.
Now. Now I’m not so sure.
There is a lot I regret.
And that worries me.
Regret only exists in the absence of satisfaction.
Why can’t I be satisfied with the life I have?
Grateful to have existed when I did,
surrounded by amazing people.
Why can’t I recognize how lucky I’ve been?
How dangerous a thought it is to wish to be young again.
I suppose that’s the nature of reflection on life.
It’s always rushed and incomplete,
because life is neither done nor slowing down.
The reflection is either biased by hope or disillusionment.
The future is always present in a reflection.
Or at least I can’t find a way to eliminate it.