Seat 24A

Seat 24A.
I'm carrying sorry across the sky.

Boarding pass creased inside my coat,
Coffee cold before they call.
Blue-ribbon bag beneath the seat;
I stop it sliding with my shoe.
You were twenty-three when I went quiet.
I was proud enough to call it peace.
Your message says, "A coffee. Saturday.
Twenty minutes." That's enough for me.

I cross the words out of my notebook:
"But you..." and "If you knew..."
Every sentence getting shorter,
Every one more true.

Seat 24A, window to the blue.
I'm carrying sorry across the sky to you.
Whatever you say, whatever you take away,
I'm done being brave the coward's way.

A child behind me asks, "Are we there yet?"
I feel that question in my ribs.
Your last old message: "Hope you're well."
The kindness I did nothing with.
I lift the silver folding frame:
One old photo, one side bare.
I almost brought a picture for it.
I haven't earned the right to put one there.

Seat 24A, window to the blue.
I'm carrying sorry across the sky to you.
Whatever you say, whatever you take away,
I'm done being brave the coward's way.

I booked a seat, not your forgiveness.
The miles don't make a debt you owe.
I brought the truth without a "but."
You get to choose what happens now.

Seat 24A, window to the blue.
I'm carrying sorry, not an answer back from you.
Whatever you say, whatever you take away,
I'm done being brave the coward's way.

The plane is down. The bag stays closed.
I say your name.
"I hurt you. I'm sorry."