I said sorry in my mind.

I reconstructed all of it--
Our past conversations,
The exchange made
Merely minutes ago—
I meant none of it,
What I really meant was. . .
. . .I know . . . Because. . .

Analogging a new answer
In my head, convincing myself
That I had said it all along—
Why do you still act
As if I did wrong? 


Or, perhaps, you brushed it off.
It was not strange to you.
It did not even stick out--
Because you couldn’t see 

All the things I could have said
And wished that I had.

I agonize over the words
That never leave my mouth,
Planning the past meticulously
Until it numbs the weight
That hangs over my chest
From the fumbled encounter
I remember so vividly.

I said sorry in my head,
Were my lips saying
Something different?
I said sorry in my mind.
But even then,
nothing is right,
nor organized,
did I even say sorry?
Or was it a fractured thought,
Underneath the pile,
Grown so high,
Of admonitions and guilt,
Screaming, yet never
Reaching the light?

The skyline was carefully cut paper,
Notebook lines ruling the windows,
Writing out the lives of figures
In apartments of faded graphite

And bright red pen; the letters
Are only their dancing forms,
Backlit by a tired orange glow--
Other characters blacked out,
With a scribbled X, squares
Of dormant life, flickering.
Is it another person moving in?
Or only someone who finds
Comfort in the darkness of night,
Staring at the leaking ceiling,
Born from tear stains
On rough-handled paper
And the hope that their words
Will somehow subdue the pains
From trying to decipher
this city