I wish

I could sit across

the table from myself

and look at the shell,

the bundle of broken nerves

and the uneasy anxiety, directly, squarely

in the blue eyes, those eyes

that have seen too much

and tell me

to let go, to damn myself

for my annoyance, for not having

the spirit to tell some

to go to Hell for their mistakes

and revelling too much in mine;

stupid boy, no answer

from your sallow lips and misty

eyed memories, holding back tears

of regret and concrete apologies

that somehow mean nothing now.

I wish I could look directly

into my eyes and proclaim

Fuck it, fuck it all to Hell,

for in the end, the last sentence

to part from our lips

would be at least

I tried.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016