On nights that I cannot sleep, I find my bedfellow regret, breathing heavily and loudly beside me. I cannot help but wonder why I only find regret during the witching hours, why something that lays so densely beside me, taking up space, cannot intrude upon my day’s work.
During the day, I am invincible, I am a herald of nonchalance. “No regrets,” I say to a man who has shared the ritual of shattering hearts with me. “No regrets,” I advise a mourning colleague. “No regrets, no regrets, no regrets,” breathe it out.
Perhaps that is why it chooses to make an appearance when I am tossing and turning in my filthy bed. I slips under the covers unannounced and smothers me. It takes me when I am searching for sleep, solace.