I wish I could take back

what I never said, the phone call

that went before it

and the day that I first met you,

for then I could say with a strange kind

of euphoria in my voice

that I was happier than I am right now

when I see your picture glaring

back, two faced, at me.

 

I wish I could take back the first lie

I told my dad and the moment before

in which I just wanted

to stroke the furry animal in the cage

and watch its nose sniff the air

as it lay it my hand;

I wish I could take it back, I wish that the

day in which he bought me a punch

bag had never taken place.

 

I wish I could take back the time

when drunk that I howled to the moon

and the soft Liverpool air carried my rage

down Hardman street

and just be sat not knowing

that the next day I would stop drinking,

that the beer would still be running

down my throat

and that killing every brain cell

in my head was still an option.

 

I wish I could take it back,

the first kiss in class

with the girl who became my friend,

for I would have waited

till I was a little more mature,

not much more, to cope

with the feelings that mixed

hedonistically in the air

and which covered itself in cigarette smoke

like a shrouded ghoul seen in plain

sight towards the Christmas of 1982.

 

I wish I could take back so much,

the non-existent as well as the tangible,

the ghost like threads that pull

in different directions, that blaze

in memory and rot in Hell,

the inferno of seven circles

matched only by the beauty

of that first gentle kiss, snow

on the ground outside and the darkness

that crept silently through the mists.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016