The Words That Won't Come

I keep rehearsing a voicemail

I'll never send,

practicing the words in my car,

in my kitchen,

trying to get to the end.

I heard secondhand that you're still hurt,

that what I did hasn't faded,

that I'm the person who made you

feel betrayed and jaded.

I could call. I could say I'm sorry.

I could let the apology pour.

But I just rehearse it,

practice it, curse it,

then delete it and want it no more.

I heard you might be moving,

starting fresh somewhere new.

And I'm still here rehearsing,

unable to tell you the truth—

that I know what I did,

that it wasn't okay,

that I'm sorry, I'm sorry,

but I can't bring myself to say

the thing that needs saying,

the apology out loud.

You stay hurt.

I stay here,

full of doubt,

rehearsing and rehearsing

a confession I can't shout.