Leftovers

All the wine glides over my tongue a little rougher than your lips used to. In a way, it satisfies completely but the trip we never took pulls at the frays to create a bigger hole than I intended and the satisfaction is no longer satisfactory. Neither is it unsatisfactory. It just isn't you.

My hair is redder now.
You'd hate it.
My collar bones scream louder and the ring on my right hand slips off sometimes and I still can't cook but he doesn't really mind.  You said you'd get funny again but I knew it wasn't true because the half moons under your eyes never went away and you hands never got warm and you stopped walking to the kitchen to eat leftovers in the middle of the night. And I know I didn't say anything but it's because I watched and I knew you better than you knew me and that's the way it always would have been and you know you would have hated it so your argument that's already forming in your head won't make a difference to me.

My coffee still gets cold and my hair still gets knotted and I still cry every once and a while. And you still don't do anything about any of it and that's why you had to go.
Or, rather, I did.
There is no apology.  Your words are powerless to mine just as they always have been. I still can't stand to see you with her and she probably hates me and you probably do too and I have to sit here and chew my nails and wipe my tears and never let anyone but the cat see so the frays in my sweaters don't turn into gaping holes and you don't slide between the cracks I made in my very own conscience.

There is no apology. But I'm so, so sorry.