I’m sorry
the elevator doors
closed too soon
and that I left you
and your boiling mug
on the morbid carpet
of the seventh floor.
I’m sorry that my arm
couldn’t move with any
honest sense of urgency.
So, I’m writing this for you,
by hand, in my notebook,
beneath the interrogating
mirrors of this glass confessional,
and I feel relieved of my sin
for a moment, long enough to
enjoy the colour of my thoughts
climbing down somewhere dark.
I come to think of how good it feels
to be in here without you,
to breathe only my air,
and the dust of every ghost
that descended before me.
I can feel them clinging to
the ancient light, desperate
to come alive again,
but I won’t let them.

Tyler Haché is from New Brunswick and his poetry has appeared in The Nashwaak Review, Atlantic Canadian Poets’ Archive, ATLIS Journal, and elsewhere.