Say You'll Remember

How can I convey the exact pitch, the subtle tonalities,

of this beast I carry around wrapped in ribs?

I swear to God I remember the tilt of your smile when it was lifted to my face,

and that will always be what I think of when I hear your name.

But those lips had a sharp bite to them that I can't just ignore,

a subtle poison that leeched at my ability to breath.

You look so enticing in the afternoon light,

and old shoes are so easy to slip back in to;

but your words have an aftertaste so bitter,

like a bottle of wine uncorked too early.

Perhaps we opened this situation too early.

I'll remember you as a smile curled up on a couch,

as a pair of amber eyes in the oblique afternoon rays,

as a complex creature I spent the better part of two years

attempting to understand.

As months amass, I'll forget how everything soured,

and maybe I'll wonder why I walked away.

I may have no idea what I want,

but I decided three months ago that it couldn't be you,

and reneging on that would be foolish.

I feel like I should apologize all over again --

perhaps because the initial apology was lacking.

I'm so sorry.

But I just can't.