Missed Optician's Appointment

I meant to go.  

I meant to go, I really did—  

the date circled in ink, a reminder set,  

my glasses slipping down my nose like blame.  

But the day got tangled,  

my mind a flock of birds lifting,  

one thing, another,  

lost in the static hum of trying.  

Then the call—  

a voice clipped neat as scissors:  

You didn’t show. Someone else—  

they were poorly, you know—  

was sent away. Your slot, wasted.

The words land like glass shattering inward.  

My chest, a tight fist.  

The heat rises, bright,  

sharp as the frames I should have adjusted.  

I picture them—  

sick, frail, waiting—  

eyes dim with need,  

while I was nowhere,  

guilty and ghosted by my own mind.  

How do I carry this?  

A name, a face I’ll never know,  

the weight of space I took  

without ever being there.  

I press my palms against my eyes—  

pressure, stars, dark—  

a punishment I know won’t fix it,  

won’t change a thing.