Regrets

As we climbed the staircase, you asked me my regrets.

"Regrets? I have a lot of regrets."

"Give me seven." Your voice was playful. 

Number one: "I wish I had bought tickets for us to see that show playing tonight."

Number two: "I wish we did things together more often. I barely get to see you."

Number three: "I wish, during the first year I met you, I talked to you more. I was shy, and maybe depressed, and it was hard for me to initiate things."

Number four: "I wish." I stopped on the stairs. "I wish you looked at me as often as I look at you."

Number five: "I wish I could pause us now, as long as I wanted." And I could look at you for a year or two or twenty-seven, before I ruin us.

Number six: "I wish you could see yourself like I do, with constellations spelled out in the freckles of your cheeks. I wish I could run my thumb across them." I'd name them. Here, I, Orion. Here, you, my scorpion. 

Number seven: "I wish I could kiss you."

When I looked into your eyes, the softest they had even been, I almost regretted saying these things, but in the end, not quite.