I’m sorry I saw you and told you I loved you.
I’m sorry I didn’t say it, that you had to see it…
In the twist of my body, the flip of my hair, the passion stitched into my wrists, the perk of my cinnamon smile—
the silence of my tongue.
I’m sorry I saw you, and told you I loved you…
With the dance of my hips, the prance of my toes, the flirt of my fingers, the way I traced your face— 50 steps between us. The grace of my steps as I turned away to go.
I’m sorry I couldn’t have just spoken it, that you had to witness…
…the passion of my heart, the vibration of each step, the woman in these limbs, the goddess wrapped inside this dress, my heightened style performed in these raging Monolo Blahnik steps—
putting more distance between us.
[I’m sorry you had to examine such a library of passion, colored pages untouched that you’ll never touch because you'll never man-up. You'll never create the things you want. you'll never reach too high because you are terrified.]
I’m sorry I saw you, and told you I loved you. I’m sorry you replied, without so much as a sigh, but with that longing look in your big blue eyes, the way your head tilted in submission, the way you left your lips open in helpless frustration.
“I love you“, i scream, without moving a muscle.
“You had your chance“, the backbeat in my heart pronounces —as you stare motionless, arms wide open.
“I’m sorry“, your body apologetically slumped down expresses.
“It’s too late“, my Manolo Blahnik’s help you equate as I bow off the stage of what was.
“Come back” you petition, with borrowed tears from years of acting.
But I won’t even glance your way.
“One more chance” your clenched fists beg.
“Not a chance“, the fire in my twirl explains.
I’m sorry my actions speak louder, then all your cheap words strung together
[skipping past every comeback you crave].
I’m sorry I saw you. I’m sorry I still love you. I’m sorry that my happiness won’t let me stay, for one more dance of pain.
I’m sorry I forgive you. I’m sorry I forget you—
as I magnificently turn to walk away.