The Empty Word

I said I'm sorry in the afternoon light,

and you saw it come out wrong—not right.

Your face understood before I finished speaking

what I meant: that I'm done, that I'm seeking

a way out of this conversation,

that my apology is just a transaction,

a word to close the door

on what I've done before.

I watched you recognize

that my sorrow was just disguise,

that I could say the word

but keep it hollow,

keep it light,

never meaning it quite right.

Not your anger.

Just clarity.

Just you seeing

that every apology I'll ever give you

will be this same performance,

this same way of pretending

I've felt something I haven't felt.

You nodded.

Not acceptance.

Just acknowledgment.

Yes, I see you.

Yes, I see what you are.

That was worse than rage.