AN: Here's another poem. I think my prose muse has taken a looong vacation and given way to my poetry muse. Thanks for reading!


SORRY. I LOVE YOU.

Here she lies
The scarlet haired femme fatale
Here alone
She sits and stares in the dark

Here she waits
For a chance to atone for her sins
Here she cries
Over the regrets she collected like stamps

Here she sits
Her pen poised to continue the letter
Here she paces
Her mind reeling over the first letter she left

Oh three hundred hours
And she has not laid her head
On her pillow down to sleep
But she sits at the desk

The desk at which her father
Took his own life

Or so they say

Was it worth it?

She does not know who
She is asking —
— Him?
Or herself?

Bourbon glows amber
Against the pale alabaster
Of her skin
Through the flawless crystal

That is — flawless except
The crack running down
Its side where her thumb
Runs over it absently

The crack made on the night
They had given in
After another explosive fight
And held each other unimaginably tight

It seems like a lifetime ago now
That night three months before
She had left it all behind in Paris
For a ghost she had to chase

Sawdust sits in a drawstring pouch
In the back of her bottom drawer
Where she slips her hand in from time to time
And draws it out to hold it tight

It's his scent that lingers in there
That haunts her every breath
Yet she yearns for it like a drug
That she cannot protest

When the bullet
Rips through her
In that diner
In the middle of nowhere

All she can think about
Is that she should have
Just finished that letter
With four words:


Sorry. I love you.


x

Scar