The Unsent Letter

The local paper, folded on the counter,

underneath the grocery list.

His name, plain black type,

a small photo, a faint mist

of pixels.

Older, yes, but the same tilt

of the head, that familiar line

of his jaw. And suddenly, the guilt

prickled, sharp and fine,

a needle through old skin.

The joke I made,

the one that landed wrong,

the way I turned away, a song

of dismissal, short and curt.

I meant to say sorry, to ease the hurt.

I meant to.

Now, the silence is heavier than before.

Just the flat, final page,

and no door.