I’m Writing An Apology Letter To Myself. Its Been A Long Time In The Making, Cause You See I’m Not Good At Saying Sorry To Anyone.

So.. Dear You, I’m Sorry For How I Dressed You In 6th Grade. I Know, I Know, We Both Regret The Knee High Socks.

I Hope You Still Smile As Much As You Used To.

I Can’t Believe Some Of The Things I Said, I Know I Shouldn’t Have.

You’ve Been Tearing At Those Stitches Long Enough, Haven’t You? Where Did You Leave Your Fingertips This Time? I Know You’ve Been Destroying Yourself From The Inside Out, And Watching Saturday Night Skylines Vanish Into Darkness.

I Heard You Like Keeping Yourself Busy. Are You Sleeping Enough These Days?

I Saw You Downtown A Few Weeks Ago, You Had Your Head Down, I Think You Saw Me, But I Was Too Afraid To Ask.

I Still Have Your Number, You Know. I Still Think About You Sometimes, Between Dusk And Dawn When The Sun Is Calling Me Skyward.

In My Imagination I’ll Greet You With A Fistful Of Black-Eyed Tulips, Butterflies In My Stomach & Two Tickets To Tomorrows Sunrise. We’d Hold Hands The Way We Used To, With Fingertips Laced Together, And Our Mouths Stuffed Full With Swallowed Pride.

We’d Wait For It To Rain, And We’d Strip Off All The Layers That At Meant To Impress, And Beg The God Our Parents Prayed To, To Take Us Home.

I Picture You Tangled In Christmas Lights, Bought With Intent To Make A House A Home. You’d Smile At Me, Across A Broken Abyss And Remind Me Of All The Things That Don’t Belong, Like The Way Babies Are Born In Prisons, Or That There Are Christmas Trees In Homeless Shelters.

You’d Place Your Open Palms Against Stained Glass Windows, And Look Away From Me, Afraid Of What I Might Say In The Wake Of The Silence, Kissing The Walls.

I’d Finally Tell You I Was Sorry. Sorry That I Had Left You, Curled Up Most Nights, Crying Yourself To Sleep, Chocking On Swallowed Phrases, Hollowing Yourself Out Until There Was Nothing Left.

I’d Tell You I Was Sorry That I Hadn’t Been There To Kiss Your Forehead, And Tell You Just This Once How Proud Of You I Was.

In My Memories I Try To Convince Myself That All Of This, All Of Us, Had Happened For A Reason. But That Excuse Is So Cheap, It Leaves The Taste Of Awful Rotting Regret On My Tongue.

It Would Be The Moment When Fingertips Would Could Reach Out And Meet Across A Spot Light, And I Promise You I’m Not Romanticizing This Devastated Conjugation Of Where Past Meets Present, But Only The Taste It Left In My Mouth.

I’d Hold You, And Take You As An Empty Canvas. I’d Promise You That I Meant It, When I Said I Loved You.

I’d Grab You By Your Broken Wrists, And Say “You’re **** Beautiful”, The Way People Say It In Your Dreams.

I’d Let My Knees Go Weak, And Find Tangible Forgiveness In This Gravity, And Put My Monsters To Rest.

I’d Heal The Heartbroken Hero, I’d Sew Shut The Gabbing Wounds, And Swear My Promise Into Eternity.

I’d Tape My Eyes Open For The Oncoming Storm, And Finally Say It.

Baby, I Am So, So Sorry.