i didn’t hear him say

“i’m sorry”

until my dad died.

funny how death can claw the sorry

out of someone’s arteries

and scrape it onto their tongue

like a soggy spit-up fur ball.

with a certain kind of man,

an apology lingers in the room for months,

suckling air like a frantic newborn.

time goes on and women forget.

dishes pile up and laundry bins folding.

until one dark, thursday night

all the air has been suckled out.

the tension breaks.

the dishes fall.

and of course,

death has her way with foreplay.

i brought him his favorite wine that night

from my parents fridge.

i paid for his dinner,

i cradled the brittle bite of a sobbing man

and i went home

with a fur ball in my pocket as a souvenir.

farewell,

my almost lover.