The Mist and the Gray

Mist fell lightly that February day. A blend of sad and serene. The colorless view from the window — the gray: what Regret must look like, if seen. “I know everybody,” Regret said to me, as he stopped at the window to stare. “Their bad decisions, their bitter derision, their cries that life was not fair.” Regret said that he was alive in the mist, that he visits most people in gray: “I sit with millions on dark cloudy days, and I never ask if I may.” “I come to haunt your heart,” he whispered — his gaze, from the mist to me. “To mourn each loss, to count the cost of all the locked safes with no key.” Down came the mist, like sorrow it fell, the eyes of Regret piercing me. “I’m sorry, so sorry, so sorry,” I cried. But Regret had no empathy. Regret stood up, pushed his chair in, His parting words like a spear: “I have to go now, to see everyone else, before the mist and the gray disappear.”