I feel guilty for just not having loved you the way I knew I could have, the way I should have. When you ask me why is it that I say that I broke your heart, I mean that I broke mine own.
I remember how I romanticized how I would love a man and when it did happen, I was in voids of guilt of not loving you enough, or maybe the guilt of loving a little less when I could have and should have loved you hard all day.
The pride I had in being your beloved and your lover was identifiable under the clouds of those prejudices against the vulnerably delicate threads of affection that can simply be never put to judge.
I remember exactly when and...