what you can't undo

He was at the bread aisle,

I was at the bread aisle,

and his shopping bag was folded

underneath his arm—

careful, neat,

the way he used to fold

my carelessness into order,

my scattered life

into something that made sense.

He waved.

I waved back.

We didn't speak.

In the parking lot,

I sat in my car

and watched him load the trunk.

Watched his hands

do the work

they've always done—

putting things right,

folding things tight,

and I thought:

You could go now.

You could cross this distance.

You could finally say it.

But I didn't move.

His brake lights

red in the dusk,

then gone,

and I'm still sitting here

with the apology

still folded

in my chest,

so carefully,

so precisely,

that if I never unfold it,

I can pretend

it's not taking up

all this space.