What if I told you I was sorry for all the things I never said to you,
for the confessions I buried so selfishly in the depths of my ribcage?
Would you forgive me for the stories I kept to myself?
Would you ask me to unearth them,
to finally voice the words I only ever repeated to myself in the dark?
Would you tell me it was too late to dig up things that had died a long time ago,
that had lost their meaning a little more with every day you didn’t get to hear them?
Would you even stay and listen?