A poem
I comb the lines one thousand times, wondering if I accidentally passed over an apology
Like an archaeologist, I brush over the same words again and again
Surely the next stroke will uncover a shred of remorse
An unexpected discovery waiting under a layer of dirt
One thousand and one times
The glow of the text illuminates my face as my eyes scan
Maybe my first translation was wrong
Like a gambler rolling dice I challenge my luck in hopes of a different outcome
A winning number is probably just one roll away
One thousand and two times
I am resigned
It’s not there
I find no, “I’m sorry for…”
No trace of the heart that once occupied your rib cage
No faint glow of empathy
You are buried in dirt just like your remorse
You are just numbers, scrambling to pull together a victory