Eagleton says the only difference between prose and poetry is line endings. So decide for yourself what ‘this’ is. I have never carried any regrets with me except this one – how much I foolishly gave to you.
I don’t regret many things in life, but I do regret how much I gave to you. I am deeply in love with someone new now but, still, your hold on me isn’t as slight as I would like. I still compare my heart, then, to my heart now – as if, not hurting, not breaking, I cannot feel. I feel empty in those colossal seconds in a day when I compare the two of you. He is my whole world, you were just the stars – out of reach, not even worth the time of day, though I’d have given you a week. And though I’m happy now, (not that I can comfortably be – you robbed me of that when you lied and said you would love me) giving my heart to him doesn’t feel as easy as it once could have, before you crushed it underfoot and another, sweet but sterile, hastily reassembled it in the blustery pockets of summer. He promised to love me too, autumn robbed me of that, and now I find myself in love with someone else, I have to say – I don’t regret many things in life, but I do regret how much I thought I loved you.
Posted by Harriet Peachey 
