Do you know I used to write about you?

Everything I strung together had your fingerprints on it.

I’d write like you were listening. 

I know you did at one point. At least once.

I read it now and I don’t remember. That was a different time. A different place. A different me. A different us. The world turned a different way back then. My life was a different color then.

I still think of you in blues. 

And I’d like to say every line saved you. I hope it did anyway. That the page I wrote on my birthday kept you in the hospital, not the grave. And the paragraph I cried out to you kept you one inch farther from where you wanted to be. The words I screamed out to your door locked you out and kept you safe. 

I used to think I loved you. Now I realize I don’t. And I don’t think I ever did. I never said I was sorry for that. None of it meant anything.

Does it still count if I say it now? 

I used to cry like my tears could keep you afloat for one more day. Like the day I sat on the side of the road and listened to the song you sang when you were angry at the world for tipping on you. What was it like being dead?

Even then I knew. 

I suppose I’ve always known. 

But I wanted to be the one to keep you. To hold you up. To keep you from drowning. When everyone else was the bottom I wanted to be the one to keep your head above. Saving you would save me.

I thought it would anyway. 

How funny it is that we can’t take our own advice. 

I suppose I shouldn’t be apologizing. But I can’t come up with enough reasons not to. I’m already walking on two left feet anyway. I might as well finish what I started.