Ox

 He keeps writing, "I'm sorry," but I'd rather be slapped in the face. At least that, you can feel.
At least that is personal--me, you, the hand.

 When I walk around, I can't feel anything but the mountain of sorrow upon my shoulders. Perhaps the sharp hit upon the face would give me something else to focus on, something else to ruminate over, a quick wound to heal.

What is "I'm sorry"? So empty, meaningless. Did you change? Did you bleed? Do you love me? Do you remember me in the night? Will you call and listen to my voice, only to hang up? I don't believe you and your sorry's. You don't know what you have done, sightless like an ox with blinders on. You stumble around, never looking where your feet are.