sometimes i try to remember what it was like
to share secrets in the darkness of moonless
nights, but all i see is the shadow of the posts
of our bedroom’s crumbling breakwater, where
we embraced the scars on each other’s bodies
and always regretted it, but regret is all we had.
perhaps you could add to that all the voicemails
that have not been heard, that we are still afraid
to delete.