My mind writes apologies

I write apologies on the walls of my mind,
never eloquently,
never for you
because I am the one who should have to remember,
because you are the one who should be allowed to forget.

I don’t have the right words for this one
(or any of them)
so instead I’ll add another angle to my camera’s repertoire,
trying to see full circle with only two eyes.

I’ll walk with a different cadence in my step,
trying to keep your rhythm,
forgetting the grass trampled under my feet.

I’ll keep those two eyes wide,
so I can see the edges of the picture,
so no one gets pricked on the thorns I’d forgotten
grow in my silence and shadows,
in small smiles,
in holding my own hand instead of reaching for yours.
The thorns that tangle in the words I say, 
but also the words I collect and keep in my pocket.

None of the words in my pocket can change what is done,
and so I’ll keep them there with a handful of pennies
(in case I need a wish)
and I will try to grow beyond this.

And yet when the world is still
and my memory, sentimental, searches through old snapshots –
through last night’s conversation,
ten-year-old footage, time tinged,
through mistakes –
I will realize my camera was wearing a filter,
and my mind will still write apologies
no one will hear.