I am sorry.
Though the word feels small
for something that grew this heavy.
I hold my words so carefully before I give them,
turn them over in gentle hands,
shape them with care,
warm them with intention, with love,
and still,
somewhere between me and you, they falter.
As if somewhere between my mouth and your heart they lose their way,
like a message passed through too many hands,
arriving unfamiliar,
untrue.
A kindness bent out of shape,
a softness mistaken for something else.
I never meant to be something that stings.
Never meant to leave you carrying anything heavy.
I only ever wanted
to be a quiet kind of good in your life.
A place you could rest.
A steady voice.
A warmth that softened the sharp edges of things.
Something that could carry a little of your weight
without asking for anything back.
But somewhere, quietly,
I stepped off that path
without even noticing.
And now I am here again,
with the same fragile words
that could not carry my care before,
asking them, still,
to be kinder than I was.
If they could reach you as I meant them,
I hope they arrive gently this time.
Not as excuses. Not as noise.
Only this:
I am sorry
that what reached you
was not what I meant.
I am sorry
it was enough to hurt you.
And no matter how carefully I try
to untangle the meaning afterward,
you grow distant—
quiet,
brief,
harder to reach.
I ask for honesty,
for your feelings,
for one open door
through which I might finally understand,
But silence keeps answering for you.
Long silences.
Short answers.
The slow ache of watching you leave
before you are gone.
And this is where I leave.
Not because I do not care,
but because I do.
Because I care too much
to keep becoming something painful in your life.
So I will loosen my grip gently.
I will let the door stay open behind me.
And I will carry the grief quietly.
