Fixing this dysfunction
Requires more
Than a phone call
Or a simple touch
Meant to say
“I’m sorry.”
I’m not sure
It’s even possible
After years
Of being shut-down
Inside
Any affection
Dying
Each time
I have to see you
Or hear the phone ring
In your haphazard attempts to fix
What was
I don’t think
You yet realize
That what was
Still exists somewhere in my heart
It remembers
Each tragedy
Spun from the fabric that unraveled
Leaving strands
Scattered across
A floor now filled
With a mixture of cluttered debris
And stain-free spots
Visible amongst the chaos of leftover scripts
That weren’t meant to be written
At all
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