Tattered, Secondhand Apologies

I heard something,
but not from
you–
never from you
in
all
this
time.

We’ve both
left
the state
where our love
boiled over
those
four long
years
ago.

We ended up
in different states
from there,
and, again,
different from
one another.

I know someone where you are,
and she somehow knows
someone
who knows you.

She said that the
girl who knows you
has heard of me.

That,
sometimes,
when you’re blind drunk,
you talk about me
and how
you fucked it all
up
to people
who have never
even
met me.

You.

You who left me
heartbroken
in a ditch
and kicked mud
over my legs
for a quick
grave while you
made off
with
the faceless
misters
and hims
while
whistling
the
“Dies Irae.”

So this
friend of a friend,
who’s also friends with
you,
knows
of
me without
knowing
me.

She’s heard my
name
and knows
our
story.

I can’t
escape
an irony
like that.

I wasn’t even sure
if
you
still remembered
my name.

I should feel
relief,
but
instead I’m
just
tired.

It wasn’t
me
all along.

It turns out
that I was
worth a damn,
after all.

It turns out
that
I was
sufficient
and it was
you
who was
_missing_
something.

I should feel
relief,
but
instead I’m
just
tired.

I was right in
thinking
that you’d need
my forgiveness
one day
when
you looked
___b____a_____c______k.

(Remember
that I gave
you
a
_____________
l_.sealed.___l
l___________l
letter
forgiving you
if that day
ever came.

I kept a
copy of it
sealed up
with Holden’s
innocence
inside “The Catcher in the Rye”
if you
need it.)

I should feel
relief,
but
instead I’m
just
tired.

I cried
when I heard
that you told her
that you were
an asshole
for what you did
to me.

I had learned
to live
without your
explanation
or apology and
didn’t realize
what it’d
mean
to have one–
even tattered
and
secondhand like
this one
was.

I should feel
relief,
but
instead I’m
just
tired.

I was
surprised by tears
when she said
you hadn’t been
able
to date anyone
since me.

I wanted to feel
good
that your
life had been fucked up
by it all
like
mine was,
but I couldn’t
maintain it.

I didn’t want
that
for you;
I don’t.

I should feel
relief,
but
instead I’m
just
tired.

You whistle
the opening to
the “Dies Irae,”
and I’ll
remind you
how
the ending
goes:

Lacrimosa dies illa,
qua resurget ex favilla
judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus,
pie Jesu Domine,
dona eis requiem.

Amen.