How do I tell you

I'm sorry.

The misleading volume of my words has gone out of line. And I know I have got to stop speaking in flames that give birth to knives, and maim quite successfully.

I'm sorry.

When friends press for stories, I like to laugh and pretend like you were the one sent to me by angels at the moment I needed reprieve, and that your job here with me is done when the reality was that you were the one that had potential, which is infinitely more painful for reasons I cannot even begin to explain.

I'm sorry.

A part of me will always ache for you, I suppose.

On nights when I am lonely and just a tad proud, I remember our conversations and the way we could go on for hours just talking about things not meant to be discussed. In our little space in time, we did disappoint each other (like the time I promised I'd call but forgot) --- because people always do --- but at least it would be in ways that we both understand.

I'm sorry.

I've never resented you for having a home inside my heart. I built that myself. It's here to stay, I think. Others may occupy it but their names and faces would be stored in some other body part; a space for each moment. But never where you are.

I remember how it was with you. Exchanging our versions of sadness. Some days I still hear you --- the funny sound you make when you're laughing, about to laugh but not quite.

I'm sorry.

I think I need to learn that the trick is to keep it quiet. Yes, I think this I learned from you. Keep quiet and smile (how you won me over).