I'm sorry

I’m writing you to say, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for all of it; the hurt, the anger, the sadness.

I’m sorry I failed; failed to be the man you wanted, failed to love you the way you needed to be loved.

I’m sorry for my broken heart and all the things it drove me to do.

I’m sorry for all the tears, all the late night text messages.

I’m sorry for calling after you said you needed your space.

And when you didn’t pick up, I’m sorry for calling again. (Just in case your phone was in the bottom of your purse, muffled by all the Kleenex and stuff.)

I’m sorry I called you at least fourteen times after that.

I’m sorry that I blocked my number so you wouldn’t know it was me calling and when you finally picked up and said hello, I said: ‘You had me at hello …’ (Because you did have me. At hello. On the phone. But in another sense you have me … You know? I wasn’t sure if you got it because you hung up so quick.)

I’m sorry for all the dance routines.

I’m sorry for signing up for the same yoga class as you on Tuesdays and Thursdays and then putting my mat directly in front of yours so that when you wake up from meditation I’m the first person you see.

I’m sorry for showing up at your door with cue cards on Christmas eve.

I’m sorry for showing up at your door on Christmas eve and wordlessly scrolling through a large stack of cue cards on which I’d painstakingly plotted how long I will love you (Forever. Or at least till you look like a shrivelled zombie corpse), all the while humming Silent Night.

I’m sorry for the flash mob in Central Station.

I’m sorry for the trench coat and the ghetto blaster and the Peter Gabriel in front of your apartment in the middle of the night. (Yes, I have seen Zero Dark Thirty. Yes, I’m aware of how blasting music at someone and depriving them of sleep is a form of torture. But I also heard that US Marines got Noriega to surrender by blasting music at him for three days straight. So I guess I was thinking about it more like that but in a way more romantic way where instead of surrendering in to custody to face trial and a sentence of life in prison like Noriega, you surrender in to my arms to face a great big hug and a sentence of life in my arms.)

I’m sorry for spilling orange juice on you every time I see you.

I’m sorry for singing a medley of Jon Lennon’s ‘Apologies’, Elton John’s ‘Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word’ and Kathie Lee Gifford’s ‘Love Never Fails’ when you were clearly out for dinner with your parents.

I’m sorry for screaming Cheap Trick’s ‘I Want You To Want Me’ from the rooftop (of the restaurant you were at with your parents.)

I’m sorry that I’ve taken to wearing your perfume in the hopes that in smelling me, you find yourself identifying deeply with me; as if you already know me, as if my body were a mere extension of yours.

I’m sorry for not logging you out of your Google account after you used my phone that one time. (Don’t worry, it’s not like I can read your e-mails or anything but I like to think I can imagine how your day is going by looking at the history bar on your YouTube page.)

I’m sorry for getting upset when I found out you were sleeping with someone else even though we’ve been broken up for two years.

I’m sorry for consistently referring to it as ‘breaking up’ even though we were only together for a short time.

I’m sorry for considering one drink and then running in to you on the train as being ‘together’.

I’m sorry for moving in next door to you even though we’d only been ‘together’ for a short time.

I’m sorry for fantasizing about letting the air out of your bike tires, filling the gas tank of your car with sugar and mailing you a large manila envelope filled with poop. (Sure, certain of those fantasies technically failed to remain fantasies as such, but that was in the dark aftermath immediately following our ‘break-up’ and I’m totally past that now.)

I’m sorry for actually mailing you a large manila envelope filled with poop.

I’m sorry for trying to make you jealous by inviting you to my Super Sexy Orgiastic Eyes Wide Shut Orgy Party #fuckthemasks. There was no orgy party, it was just me watching Eyes Wide Shut. Without a mask on.

While I’m at it, I’m sorry to Apple and to Siri for that brief period when I treated my iPhone like a kind of Scarlet Johansson in Her type artificial intelligence in the hopes that It and I would fall in love and I could get over you.

I’m sorry for trying to adopt a little boy so you could see that not only was I whimsically childlike but also deeply responsible.

I’m sorry for contemplating sleeping with your mom because … The Graduate … I don’t really understand that movie.

I’m sorry I watch too many movies.

I’m sorry I love you, even though you don’t love me.

And I’m sorry for delivering you this letter while you’re clearly having dinner with your parents.


The last kind words: met de nodige ironie zet Sandy Williams telkens een pointe achter het dossier.

Sandy Williams (1979) is a dancer and choreographer living in Brussels. Even though he (he’s a he) is Canadian.

^ Terug naar boven


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