The moth outside my window knows that I regret nothing.
Its paper wings fluttering against the glass beat a song into the fading glow of new night. Washing my face, with its freckles and just forming wrinkles, the little moth-drum plays for my day, my week, my month, my years: each strike a checkmark off the lists that I’ve made for myself. I wish it a good night, safety from bats, flip the light switch, and pull my feet up into warmth.
I close my eyes and wait. And wait. But instead of sleep drifting in, something else floats down instead. Every mile I traveled away from your grave to here, leaving only my sister to bring you fresh roses. Taking this job to pay bills; giving up that dream for another. Committing to love him forever, unsure if I’m even able to, unsure whose heart will break more when the floor crumbles beneath us. Telling myself I’m okay for so long when I haven’t been and wondering if it’s too late to ever get better.
Stumbling in the dark, guarding shinbones from bed corners, I slap on the bathroom light, splash my face with cold water. With each passing night, my face looks more and more like yours. Have I made the choices you’d make, or have I chosen my own?
The moth still pattering outside my window knows that I regret everything.