The apology that missed

The envelope arrived

in the mail today,

postmark old and faded,

handwriting I didn't want to see.

Inside, an apology—

the words I needed long ago,

five years back,

maybe even yesterday,

but not now,

not when I've already

moved on,

already become

someone new,

someone who doesn't

need this apology,

doesn't need

their sorry,

doesn't need

their too-late

attempt

at making things right.

I read it anyway,

carefully,

the way you read

something someone

spent time writing,

something they stamped

and mailed

and sent

to reach me.

But the timing was all wrong—

like getting medicine

after the sickness

has already changed you,

like hearing "I love you"

after you've learned

to live without

that kind of love,

like being told

you were right

after you've accepted

being wrong.

I was no longer

the person

who needed those words,

no longer

the person

who was broken

and waiting.

I put the letter

down.

Thank you

for finally saying

you're sorry,

but I'm sorry too—

I can't use it.