I rehearse in my mind
the words I have to say.
I’ve written your lines too
to sit between mine,
in the hope that you won’t
stray too far off-script.

I need to tell you something.

Perhaps you’ve worked it out,
though you haven’t said a word
about the new shirts,
the late nights at work,
or the weekend away
with friends I’d never mentioned.

No, you don’t know her.

Maybe you’ll shout
and call me a bastard.
You’ll probably cry.
Perhaps I will too,
while I’m packing my bags
or opening the door.

I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.

The last words are always
the hardest to write.
I’ve never been good
at endings.