Sorry I lied. I apologize
for misleading you down
slope of my deception. Sorry
I pretended to love you,
or pretended to try to love you.
And I’m sorry about making up
the constellations. I am surprised
you bought it—maybe pairs of stick figures
doing it in impossible positions, but a bull?
A queen on her throne? Come on.
I finally, officially apologize
for the Bohpal chemical explosion—
it’s a relief to let that go.
I am sorry I tricked you into thinking
your favorite author was Sylvia Plath,
sorry for allowing you to believe
you actually understood her.
Sorry I blended up your goldfish.
Do pardon me for making you happier
than you’ll ever be again, lighting up
like a colonnade of Tikki torches
the last eight months of your life.
Please tell your next lover “discúlpame”
for ruining his chances at being your best
fuck ever. I am sorry I wept wide-eyed
as I watched you duck your head
under the doorframe of the smallest room within me.
I am sorry we are both in the same country.
I am sorry I addicted you to cigarettes, and I
mildly regret that thirty some years from now
you will wake in clean sheets, confused,
with a plastic tube in your nose
leading to a mechanic lung,
its occasional whisper of sterile air
the only sound in that soon-to-be-abandoned room.