I am sorry with every bone cracked unapologetic, but you will never be a poem penned by me. You will never be a ghost that haunts rooms of me until he moves on to blow a breeze across someone else’s memories, crossing hearts like hallways once called home. You won’t ever be words or lines or remember when thoughts for every now and then. You will never be the one who got away or the one who used to be. You are never going to be a letter, a denial, a promise that broke, or a lie that wishes for truth. I won’t turn you into silence or a scream wishing to be. You’re not a mistake in my story or a therapy session calling for me to have a seat. You’re not a poem. This isn’t about you. You’re not a ghost. I’m not haunted. You’re not in the lines or even in between. You will never be an end or one that tries to be. And I’m sorry that I will never be sorry. You were and always will be more than words in a poem, more than a ghost, more than the reason my heart is ripped open. You can’t ever be a memory. You will never be anything less than the front row seat to here and now and always. The songs still play. Even the ones left unfinished, they sing anyway. The music goes on. I always hear it. It never stops and I refuse to turn the volume down. I will never write a lesser version of us to reduce your worth or choke on silence to forget how much you matter to me. You will always be more than just a poem and bigger than silence tries to be. You will never be goodbye.