Unsent Apologies

I type your name and don’t hit send.

The cursor blinks like a tiny siren,

then a patient metronome,

Then—honestly—just a dare.

﹁﹂

The kettle starts yelling in the kitchen.

I let it. I like the sound

of something wanting something

and not getting it right away.

﹁﹂

I wrote: I’m sorry for that night—

the parking lot, the cold fries,

The way I made a joke sharp enough

to cut your quiet.

﹁﹂

Delete.

I wrote: I miss you, which is embarrassing.

Delete.

I wrote: You were right about my tone.

I hate that one most.

﹁﹂

Rain taps the window in little soft knuckles.

It has its own language: stay, leave, stay.

My throat learns it too,

holds whole sentences like swallowed coins.

﹁﹂

I open the draft again.

My hands are clean, my intentions aren’t.

I can’t decide if an apology is a gift

or a way of knocking on a door

That should stay closed.

﹁﹂

A car passes, throwing light across the wall,

And for a second, it looks like forgiveness.

Or maybe it’s just headlights

doing what headlights do.

﹁﹂

I don’t send anything.

But my unsaid words keep falling,

quiet rain inside me,

wetting the same old ground.