You always meant to go.
You told yourself you’d visit next week, maybe the week after that.
Life was chaotic—emails, errands, exhaustion. And they understood.
Of course they did. They always did.

But they were still waiting.

Not for anything grand.
Just a knock on the door. A conversation that wasn’t rushed. A face that wasn’t looking at a screen.
They left the porch light on longer than they should have.
They reheated the same meals.
They said “maybe next time” and smiled through the sting.

And now—
now you bring flowers to a stone.

You kneel in the grass like it’s sacred, whispering confessions to the wind.
As if the breeze can carry your apologies backwards.
As if you can make up for absence with presence too late.

You speak to the ground and pretend it’s listening.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
“I was just tired.”
“I thought we had more time.”

You always thought there’d be more time.

But time ran out while you were too busy,
and now all that’s left is silence that refuses to tell you it’s okay.

Because gravestones don’t nod.
And the wind doesn’t say “I know you tried.”

You kept them waiting.
And now you’re the one waiting—
for some kind of peace,
for a sign that your delay didn’t mean you didn’t care.
For something more than regret to hold onto.

But the wind just moves past you.
And the stone stays cold.

You missed the chance to show up.
And now you ask forgiveness from the silence that replaced them.