Romance doesn’t exist in the moment. It’s something that is perceived later on. Looking back on memories and times shared together that have long since passed, you reflect on your interactions; the smiles, the surroundings, the way the light bounces off of someone and draws your vision to the lines of their body and their soul. Romance is looking back at these moments and remembering fondly that your heart was somewhere other than your chest. It was in the air, breathing in the hope and the possibility, only to ever exhale when you find yourself looking back; respiring life into your memories and surrounding them in a fog of adoration.
I’m sorry that I failed you. I’m sorry that my romance has been your complacency. I’m sorry that time has passed you by and the memories have forgone your heart.
I wish that I had been someone more for you. Someone who had laid with you and contemplated, swam with you and discovered, walked with you and remembered. I wish that your memories of me echoed the romance that mine do of you. I wish that our time spent together hadn’t been spent so in vain.
I’m sorry that it made you feel bad seeing me so tense. No more confidence. What that must have done to your vision of us as one. Me; your responsibility and your sadness. And I was weak in mind and spirit. Never trusting myself to be capable of maintaining your brilliance. I see how the light of my romance was dusk unto your sense of hope and possibility.
I’m sorry that I failed you and what could have been ours. My worth–a song of broken harmony to bide the luster of our memory–not forgotten, but denied exaltation in a lost fantasy that I could never fashion into your being.