My gmail sidebar has been marred with a bold draft folder for far too many months. It sits there, full to bursting with the potent emotion of a problem long past, and yet I cannot send and I cannot bring myself to hit delete. I’d forget that night. I’d forget the questions and phone calls and the pasta on the stove. I’d forget the morning of unexpected waking, the police, the searching, and the eventual stabbing dismissal. It may not be such a bad thing, but what comes with forgetting is the bewilderment of why what once was is no longer, the constant questioning of why I cannot be the bigger man and just let it go.
I can’t let it go.
There are days when I waver, where I think that perhaps I could apologise, but it is no good. Apologising for eventualities and not actions, a non-apology, a pointlessness. Given the exact same set of circumstances, I would do the same again. I wasn’t wrong. I did what I could with what I had, and it just happened that I didn’t have enough. How can someone turn around and say sorry for something they’d almost certainly repeat?
I can’t apologise.
Solutions present themselves. Perhaps all would be well with just a careful word or waiting for the wounds to heal, but in my heart of hearts I know it won’t be enough. To fall on my sword, to own it all, that is the price. It is a price that I have weighed against the cost to my self respect. Broke and broken. I wish there was a magic word that would have things back the way they were, a wave of a hand to have it all be water under the bridge. I dearly wish there were words.
I miss you.