21 Letters – #18 Darryl
Do you remember what I said to you?
That day, months ago
when you chose her,
that woman none of us knew,
over your own blood?
Over your daughter’s wedding?
Do you remember my voice,
tight with disbelief,
when I told you
you’d wring her out too,
once you grew tired,
just like you’ve done
to every good thing
that’s ever dared
to get too close?
Does it sting now?
Now that she’s gone?
Now that the one
who gave you
grace you never earned
has slipped from this world
without you
even bothering
to sit with her pain?
Do you regret it?
Or are you still
the same empty vessel,
stuffed with pride and silence
and nothing real?
You used to say
“You never call me.”
As if there was ever
a reason to.
As if absence
wasn't your first language.
As if the distance
wasn’t built by your own hands
and cemented
by every moment
you chose not to show up.
You said it like
you were owed something.
Like we were the ones
who disappeared.
But you were gone
before we even knew
what a real man looked like.
And now,
the only one
who ever tried to see the good in you,
the only one
who softened her heart
when yours was stone,
has left this earth
and you –
you could barely spare
a couple hours during her last.
She waited, you know.
In her own quiet way.
She gave you a chance.
And you
did what you always do...
chose yourself.
So when your time comes,
when the last light flickers
on your side of the sky,
when the walls close in
and there’s no one left
to beg for your attention
know this:
it is your doing.
It is your masterpiece.
The legacy you carved
out of cowardice
and neglect.
None of us
will be there.
Not to hold your hand.
Not to speak your name.
Not to mourn
what was never whole
to begin with.
This,
these words,
are the last
you’ll ever get from me.
I have no more to give.
No more room in my chest
for the weight
of a ghost
who never tried
to be real.
I won’t waste
another second.
Not on you.
This is my last thought
of the man
who never was.