She said she had regrets. I wonder what they were; things said, or things left unsaid? I ache for both, and I'm tired of living this way. I can't keep dining on broken memories; their taste is too bitter to bear.
The raindrops don't bead on my car any more. The old paint is scratched and fading, and it suits me. My shoulders sag more these days, and each morning it's harder to rise to an empty day, to plod through the gray grind until I can hide in sleep again, let it cradle me for a few sweet hours.
But there's no way to hide from dreams, and in truth I don't want to. I would dream of her every night if I could, and if I did I might never awaken, just sleep away the tag-end of an empty life in blissful contemplation of the truest beauty I have ever known. Because memories fade eventually, no matter how hard you hold on, until it seems that your life's most vivid moments never really happened, that you just dreamed it all. Sometimes I think I wish that were true, so I could dream a happy ending for us both.
