the room is cold.

the room is perfect.

my cat is asleep next to my feet.

the cardinal has stopped

knocking on my window.

there are no bed bugs.

i swear i’ve never been more tired.

and yet i’m awake.

thinking about real,

genuine apologies.

how do you forgive for something

that put holes in your heart?

how do you forgive for something

that has taken one thousand days from you?

how do you forgive someone

who isn’t sorry?

nothing is more humiliating

than the thought of intervention,

and yet i wished for it.

for someone to walk in

one of the first dozen times.

for someone to walk in

when i was crying against linoleum.

for someone to walk in

and ask if i’m tired yet.

the room is quiet.

the room is perfect.

the past has been written and done over

since it happened.

i don’t have to worry about what i’d say

if you apologized

and meant it.

there are no bed bugs.

and yet the past bites, anyway.