Regrets type out letters in sable print. He knows because they fall as a stain on each page, a lattice of ink, scribbles of all that he knew – but not truly, not really. All of the little things… Are they meant to dissolve so fast?

He pricks his finger during the September weeks, not as annual as one might think, for toward the end of the month, everything is always yellow with the faint traces of color association, aurulent and shining, somehow diminishing, because the color of faded parchment is golden - but so is what shines in the conquistadors chests, fading – flourishing? – And now he remembers. Remembers the system that he was trying to break free from, even when it is already mid-October and he is gone.

His room is scattered in 'what if's. A dangerous conundrum to the wandering mind. What if he had pieced the puzzle together instead of slashing it apart. What if he had dreamt of finer things than a life of finger prints wearing clunky metal, keys hammering down like the footsteps of a chain gang, sputtering out transition words to alleviate him… And he tears them out because they are so common, so tasteless, the bad cloves in the batch. Plucks at the 'however' of a statement, tosses it into the air, but stores it as regret. It is like a memorandum that he has never written – and the slashes across each page are donned like a button over a tattered and stretched belief.

He can not map out his mistakes like the final breaths before a fall, clouds emptying themselves on an even grayer evening. Can not cling to existence like the paper dripping from the type writer, a tongue of white riddled in tasteless indentations, but the scent of bitter, black ink fills his nostrils with the must of age – and there goes another transition word, 'but,' so tasteless, so said before – and so forth (gone), erstwhile the (plucked out like a rose) precipitation consumes the sky as he hardens into an amanuensis for his darling (rising toward the ceiling) muse, and yet (only to fall to the floor) these efforts, the rain, are fruitless. And the drops have only ever been his words.

The bits of paper fall from the roof, some drifting out of windows, through cracks in the door, catching themselves on an upward draft and hooking against the shingles, paving his house with "If only"s.

And however long he denies it, words urging him to walk along the silver lining, to be thankful for his loss, a soft repose will only equal decay. The sky rains transition words, letting them dissolve against his skin, bits of paper flecking his hair, falling down the handsomely shameful curvature of his features. He is lost in his sickness, his regret, his guilt. Can not rewrite it, unsay those hurtful words, or be granted forgiveness. Not while the type writer clacks out an endless solution, providing an escape, or perhaps the perfect compliments for a heart-felt love letter, even as September proves to be a different shade, yellow tarnishing to a crumpled brown.

The remorse will always defeat him, words flying toward the ceiling, and he knows that no amount of plucked roses – or written words - will ever be sincere enough to read, "I am sorry."