Of November Nights.

Somewhere along the road you’ll find something else to wait on, to hold on to. Hope is a hidden treasure, a sole friend midst a storm, the moon on a dark night. 

Regret they say, is the shadow of the troubled man. And there are none that are not troubled or troublesome. What is weaker than a weakling who thinks he has all the power. You don’t have power if all your actions are dictated by opinionated fools. There’s a shadow there. You just don’t realize it yet. How could you ever be guided by the moon when all you did was kept looking at the distant lights which seemed so near to you but were in fact days away?

It is this time of the year again, love. The fire in the fireplace is about to go out. The noises in the house are next to none. It is hitting you hard – the nostalgia. The yearning of a time when life was a joke. Not all times are fun and time forgives none. You take the last sips from your cup and put it down. Gazing into the flames you think about regrets and how shattered pieces are of no use to anyone. Trust me, regrets are as unforgiving as time. You may think I don’t have any but I have plenty. You were my regret. The regret of loving someone that had a wisdom of a different kind. I could never see it.

There’s no rhyme or reason to the things we do in love. One man’s dream is another man’s nightmare. The fire is about to burn out. Nothing remains except smoke. Somewhere in the background the gramophone plays.

“Now you say, you love me
Well, just to prove you do
Come on and cry me a river, cry me a river
I cried a river over you”

The music is as haunting as the howling of the wolves. There’s no escape. We could have danced. But it was this time of the year again. The fire goes out and the wood turns amber. You hug the picture of us and fall asleep. The music stops.

Love they say, is every man’s regret.

Now it’s yours too…

PoB09

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