The Words I Borrowed

I said the words like they were borrowed,

like I was reading from a script I'd sorrowed

over just enough to make them sound real,

like I was someone who could actually feel

the weight of what I'd done.

"I'm sorry," I said, and watched your face

relax, watched your anger erase

itself, watched you nod like you'd been

waiting for exactly this, like you'd been

carrying the anger just waiting for me

to take it back.

And I did.

I took it back.

I performed the apology like an actor

who'd memorized the script, and the factor

that mattered wasn't whether I meant it—

it was whether you believed it, whether I spent it

well enough to get you to stop

looking at me like I'd broken something you couldn't drop.

But I didn't feel it.

The words were just borrowed,

and now you've sorrowed

into acceptance, into forgiveness

of someone who wasn't even present.