Saving Her a Slice

Two slices in the box.

She watched over them, soft with cheese and second chances;

folded the crust like quiet apologies,
as if dough could mend what words unraveled.

They sat there – on the marble counter, beside the chips – 

two slices, not eaten
because she thought of you.

“Don’t eat them,” she said, sounding more like hope than warning.

Not in the way she used to,

not with heat or hatred but with hurt and grief and a kind of quiet hunger
for peace between you,
for something small to say:


“I remember.
I’m sorry.
This is yours.”

…

Maybe you won’t understand.


Maybe you’ll laugh.


Maybe cold pizza can’t thaw silence – Still,

she saved them,
because sometimes forgiveness
starts with a simple act;

a space kept open,
two slices not taken.