Gas Range

I have 
so many
regrets.

I didn't walk into the
Hudson,
drift down
and hear the cars beneath me. 
I didn't swallow enough to drown
and stay there.

I never bought flowers,
never took them back into
the apartment,
for the pretty vase on the table.

Never cooked like I promised.

I haven't yet lived long enough.

My fingers bled under the twisting
of chicken wire,
dusty overalls and barefeet.
Mending fences.

Burnt bridges
were my calling card,
left ashes on the coffee table
for you to find.

Left cracker crumbs in bed for you
to sleep on.
Hoping they might burrow under
your skin.

Leaving the gas on,
the apartment stinking up,
I wanted you to light a match.
Lend flame to your Camel.
Test me, I quiz well.

I regret so many attempts.

Used your toothbrush after
coming in from the bar.
The tab on your card.
I told you to 
take it easy,
lie back down.

I opened the windows,
slept naked in December
to spite you,
to catch the flu and
show you.

I know how, too.

I have 
so many
regrets.

Why couldn't I be 
the one with blonde hair
and belted waistlines.

Instead, the one holding matches under your nose.
Can you smell that?