Gone

There was a Future.

It was purple, glassy and bright,
shining with strength and promise,
an echo of hopeful prosperity and peace.

I crushed that Future.

I took my fist,
I dug it into the city of forever,
I banished it,
and it is no more.

And for that,
I am both sorry
and not sorry.

Sorry because that was

                                      my Future      his Future       our Future.

Sorry because I carved my beating heart out cruelly--
slow, sure, searing.

Sorry because the hurt behind his eyes was:
palpable, tangible, richly grieving.

Sorry because the Future was so close--
I could brush it with the tips of my fingernails,
scratch the surface!

Sorry because:
sorry is what sorry does. 

Sorry because:
I am.

And not sorry.

Because when I scratched the surface
of that beautiful dome of promise,
I felt it tremor with disbelief,
and I stepped back confused.

Not sorry because
doubt ate at the roots of my hair
and the bottoms of my feet.

Not sorry because:
I see better,
know better,
have/want/will better –

I think?

Not sorry.

Not.

I think?

Anyways.
The Future is gone,
he is gone,
we are gone,
and I am here.

The logical part
of your thumping brain-bits
will tell you:
you did right,
and it was wise
and it will be ok
and go on.

But the pit of your stomach
sinks
deeply into depression;
your eyes keep sweltering
with heart-ache.

Ache that reaches deep
into the Future,
pulls it out by the roots,
shakes it free of dirt,
sets it somewhere--anywhere--but here.