It's been five minutes since I asked the question.

Now six.

Now seven.

At eight he murmured "sorry."
I suspected he'd say that much, but sorry doesn't really answer my question.
Sorry doesn't give me back my time. Sorry doesn't unsay all our words.
Sorry can't take back the months I wasted pretending it was real.

At ten I whisper "I'm sorry too." hoping he wouldn't hear.

At thirteen he asks "For what?" and those minutes felt like years.

How can I explain it? The faking of the tears, the praying to a God I'm not sure is even there, the hoping that love would figure its way out.
"You are broken" the last one told me just before he left. Telling me I couldn't love and he wished we'd never met. I asked him if he ever loved me, not sure what I expected him to do. Telling me he did wouldn't change a thing, but telling me he didn't would make even my dead heart sting.


"I'm not sure I believe in love." Twenty two.