A place void of shape.
Exists within my mind's eye.
Past words; only faith.

Saying sorry is the hardest word to say in the english language.
Saying sorry is a humbling experience.
Saying sorry takes courage.
Saying sorry requires your own feelings to take a back seat.
I hate the word sorry.
At least I hate saying it.
I want to erase it from my vocabulary.
I say it too much.
I tend to apologize when it’s not entirely my fault.
I usually say sorry when I want to “save” a relationship.
Or at least try to make it better.
And it’s not even romantic relationships.
It’s friendships, family, etc.
I felt like saying sorry would change things.
I felt like that maybe if they saw me put forth the effort to make it work then they would too.
I thought that if I said sorry that they would say sorry too.
I was wrong.
Every time I said sorry no one said it back.
I took responsibility for my actions,
why weren’t they taking responsibilities for theirs?
I know I was in the wrong,
but I wasn’t the ONLY one in the wrong.
Why am I always the one to take the blame?
I thought saying sorry was supposed to make me feel better.
Why do I feel worse?
I’m tired of being the only one who is sorry.
I want to live my life unapologetic.
From now on the only thing I’m sorry for is not being sorry.
Sorry not sorry.

Every day
I run boxes
To the doorsteps of -
Magnificent houses
With stone porches
And towering windows
That smell like wood fires
During the winter
And flowers during the summers
With driveways that stretch nearly a mile
Winding
Winding
Winding
Down hills
To overlook acres, many acres
Of land
They are materialized dreams

And on every
mountainous stone porch
Or tree trunk of a door
Or posted at the very bottom of the endless winding drive-
There is a doormat
Or a plaque
A cut metal sign
"The Miller's"
"THE SHERMANS"
"Svobda"
"Kate & Rex"

And I am momentarily so sad
So jealous
Because that is all I want

The woman inside has a husband
With a good job
And a big smile
And her parents love him
And he is nice to her
And he built her a PALACE
And that's all I want
Is OUR last name on a plaque beside the door
But I may never have that
No matter how hard I work

If only, I can fly again
If only, I can fall again
If only, I can love again
If only, I can break again

If only, I can accept
I'll never see you again.

Museum.

Once again it crumbles in solitude.
Mourn weeping groan.
Please don't bring it here.
It only causes happiness.
Thick and shadow showering sound.
Like the sick child.
No more.
No more.


Garrett Johnson

Only the ingenuity of true poets
could describe the indescribable.

<>

“where all my journeys end”
————————————


§§§

she gets
breakfasts in bed,
an all-pandemic menu benefit

I smile,
as I carry delicately
her coffee, berries, & bagel,
a happy house divided,
stroked even sided
1/2 French pear confiture
1/2 NYC  whipped cream cheese

I smile,
as I am now an imagined,
a heroic carry-out guy,
an ear budded delivery man,
whose ears are filled to the brim
with words of an old love song,
“where all my journeys end”^

this poem is hers,
an ending for her
bed breakfasting,
and a commencing,
for her living well

an ending for her bed breakfasting,
and a commencing, for her living well,
a place where,
all my journeys end.

§§§§§

May 8
twenty twenty




^Traci Chapman