Timestamped Regret

The subject line,

a name I hadn't seen in years,

made my breath catch and stall.

'Just wanted to say,' it began,

a digital sigh against the screen's white wall.

Paragraphs of 'sorry for everything,'

a clumsy, belated plea.

It read like a confession,

but what was left for me?

The hurt had hardened, years ago,

into a quiet, solid thing.

Not gone, but settled,

no longer a sharp sting.

This letter, arriving now,

was like a flower sent to a grave.

It didn't revive the dead,

nor did it save.

Just stirred the dust,

a faint and bitter taste.

Too late for mending,

too late for haste.

I closed the window, email unread,

the cursor blinked, a silent drum.

What use is an apology

when the person you hurt has become

someone else entirely,

and the moment for grace has come and gone?