The One Time I Swallowed My Apology

Faint scuff marks linger on the floor,

where words could’ve fallen but held tight.

We stood—silent,

like a scene paused in the flicker of breath.

I wanted to say sorry,

but the word hit my tongue, then slipped back,

folded away like old receipts

pressed flat beneath cracked boots.

Your eyes caught mine,

waiting for the sound that never came,

and I felt the weight of what I refused,

a quiet fracture in the space between us.

The night grew thick with unspoken things,

a shadow heavier than the cold that crept through cracks,

and I carried that unsaid apology home,

a stone clenched in a pocket I forgot to empty.