He never told her what he really meant,
Never thought to tell her about his plans,
outside of their own.
His own version of bloke-speak.
Never uttered.
Each sentence, deciphered, analysed,
Translated back to regret.
Too much, she thought.
All her fault?
He manipulated it that way.
Blamed for wanting more,
as she watched the jacket shrug across uneasy shoulders
as he slouched out of the unpainted door.
Cracked and peeling neglect, skirting their lives.
Had she driven him away?
They parted.
As did the thighs of that girl who always gave him
sympathetic sighs at work,
then energetic strokes in the back of her Ford Focus.
Now, her life unfocused,
for all the investigating, decrypting,
over-analysing of what he did,
or didn't say,
one thing she knew.
Something the office girl would come to learn.
That one word left unspoken,
never formed in his throat,
it wasn't stuck,
for never the notion of it to be said
existed in his world.
The word, she never heard or thought implied -
"Sorry."
No comments:
Post a Comment