A name from the past on a screen in the dark

A name from the past on a screen in the dark,

a suggested friend who’s been gone for years.

I type out the words to ignite a small spark,

but the sentences land on indifferent ears.

The cursor is blinking, a rhythm of white,

like a pulse in a body that’s already cold.

I’m saying I’m sorry to the middle of night,

to a story that’s already been bought and sold.

The person I was when I broke that trust

isn't the person who’s typing this now.

The 'sorry' is heavy with a layer of dust,

and there’s nobody left to accept the bow.