I hang my coat,
wash my hands twice,
stand at the sink
watching water spiral
down the drain.
I remember the sound
of my name on his lips —
how it sounded distant,
like someone else's story,
someone he didn't know.
Please forgive me.
His words ring hollow,
and I feel a cold clarity:
he wanted peace for himself,
not for me.
There's a difference
between remorse
and reckoning.
I sit in the dark by the window,
light from the streetlamp
drawing bars across the floor,
and I understand —
Sometimes closure
comes without healing.
Maybe it's just the sound
of a guilty plea
landing in a place inside me
that's no longer empty.
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