I’m Sorry
The light goes out, and time rewinds.
I’m on the couch, not in your room.
With eyes shut tight, I ask for dreams
and wait to hear those words from you.
Then from the plane I step,
and find them waiting there.
We walk awhile to where she waits:
green eyes and raven hair.
Piercings, ink, and quiet stare,
too sharp to look straight through.
In what way will you hurt me?
How beautiful are you?
The car ride home: you chew your gum
while hearts I draw on glass.
You blow a million bubbles up
and let the moments pass.
You tie your shoes on the stairs.
I’m shy in the living room,
but you see me and tilt your head:
“So, are you coming too?”
Barbecues and waterparks,
cinemas and rented films,
candy, games, and midnight talks—
who are you beneath the stills?
You had seen it all before I did:
how pain in me grew worse.
And tighter still, you held me close,
though I was a curse.
“Not on the couch just like some dog—
you’ll sleep in bed with me,” you said.
That warmth, that smell, that open door
still lives inside my head.
I wish not sleep, but crave the dream,
and sometimes bend it cruel,
where you hurt, discard, and use me,
and love me like they do.