Every Last Word

by Tamara Ireland Stone

When I’m done, we have a poem that doesn’t say “I’m sorry” in so many words, but it talks about regret and second chances, a fear of not belonging that runs so deep it changes you into someone you don’t want to be. It’s about seeing what you’ve become and wanting—craving—to be someone different. Someone better.

“The trick is to recognize your mistakes, take what you need from them, and move on.”

“Then this particular mistake has done its job. Forgive yourself and move on,

It takes effort, but I sit up straight and look right at her. “Every last word.”

“I didn’t go there looking for you. I went looking for me.” My voice is soft, low, and shaky. “But now, here you are, and somehow, in finding you, I think I’ve found myself.”

“Sam.” He runs his thumb along my cheekbone. “What isn’t good?” As soon as I part my lips, I hear the words slip out, like they’re floating away from me all by themselves. “I like you too much.” He kisses me again, harder this time. “Good,” he whispers. “I like you too much, too.”

After you left I stared at the driveway Feeling its emptiness Wondering if you’d return. After you left I thought about your questions Wishing I hadn’t been so blunt Wondering if I scared you away. After you left I remembered how you felt in my arms. How you fit so perfectly there. Like my guitar. Wondering if I should have kissed you when I had the chance. After you left I sat in my room Remembering all the things you said, and Wondering about all the things you didn’t. After you left I sat in silence. Missing you in a way I didn’t quite understand. Wondering if you’d ever come back.