I’m sorry. I haven’t been
myself. Instead
I’ve been a rotted old chair. Half
soft, half brittle, and ready to collapse
this side of the finish line.

I’m sorry. I’m almost
finally done. Instead
I’ve been a sodden old table. Half
chewed up, half dilapidated, and ready
to creak to beyond the end.

I’m finally sorry, almost
completely finished. Instead
I am a thought — an incomplete
thought. It never ended,
never finished, never completed.

This whole world is cheering.
I am over halfway to an end
and I’m sorry. I will not.
I can’t complete the circuit
and despite the cheering,

I am ending like this.

““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““
onward,
T