Six Years

I've been wanting to say I'm sorry.

That's what the text said. I'm sorry.

I left it unread for eight hours,

face-down—like a story

you know the shape of but can't open.

I read it at eleven at night.

Twice. Put the phone back down.

Made dinner. Killed the light.

Two days now. I haven't answered.

The phone lit once through the gap—

another message. Then went dark.

I don't know how to map

what I actually want from this.