Draft, Never Sent

I was cleaning the inbox out —

the ones from years ago, the coupons,

the flight confirmations for trips

I remember taking but barely —

and there it was. Your name

on a folder. One draft inside.

Subject line: blank.

11:47 PM. Three days

after the last real conversation.

Three days after the window

had already closed and latched

from the other side.

I read it. It was right.

Everything I should have said,

arranged correctly, nothing

too much or not enough —

just the right amount of sorry

and the right amount of here is

what actually happened.

I sat with it for a while.

Then I archived it

because I didn't know

what else you do

with something that's finally true

and three years too late to send.