Sincere Apologies

I want to get out now. I want to leave you behind in the room with the unlocked doors. I want you to let me go, your fist clenched, your eyes closed. “Welcome home,” you could say. But you don’t. In and out. So on and so on. I want you to stop. I want you to keep going. I want you to stop now, I mean it, and my eyes are closed but they’re still dancing, maybe, they’re still staring you down, holding you accountable, burning eyes, brown eyes, blue eyes, sugar eyes. “Open your eyes, pretty boy,” I could say. Let me take one more look at you before I go. Let me kiss your knuckles and your missing tie. Let me crawl out on my knees before the doors lock, past the tent where we never slept, around the grapes, over the pillow I never screamed into. Let me out before you find your tie on the floor. I’m going, I swear. “Let me out with your fist,” I could beg, or with a big shard of broken white plate. Here is your apology, next to the grapes. Here are my knees. You can close your eyes now.