One hundred seventy-seven days
Since the last haunting
By the apology
That never made it past
The bouquet of white lilies
The florist said was basically
Absolute remorse in floral form
(To which I added a gaudy orange flower
Because, well, it’s your favourite colour)
I had to throw away anyway
As I watched your flight take off,
Pretending I didn’t know
I took the long way there.
The apology never made it past
The grandiose speeches I composed
(In my mind, quietly)
And swore was shit
(Out loud, loudly)
As I re-read every page
Of the book you got me
From the tiny bookshop you liked
(Mostly for its jingly doorbell)
Because the protagonist
Reminded you of me,
Hoping for a hidden message
Or inspiration
(But really, I was looking for courage)
To help me with the apology
For what I said to you
The night before you left.
It never made it past
The countless times I hung up
Before the first ring reached you
So I could delay for a better moment
The next day that’s the same as next year
And the next
Until that call came - 
Not from you,
But about you - 
And the apology poured out of me,
Never to make its way to you.