Regrets

I’ve never told her how I really felt. I never told her how frequently that her raven hair, in its mesmerizing glow, and her comforting voice appeared in my thoughts and dreams.

How I wish I could tell her how much I cared for her, how often I imagined a life with her. And never had I thought instead the life I would end up living would be one without her. Deprived of her soft touch. Devoid of that sweet perfume she sprayed on her neck. The world is a violent ocean of torment, an inescapable pit of regret and gloom without her radiant glow guiding me to safety.

I remember the last time I visited her. I can only remember her bleak frame outlined so shallowly on that bed, her hands lying limp beside her delicate figure. The final image I have of her is one of sadness and desolation – one of death.

I’ve never told her how I really felt. But if I were given another chance, I would say: Forgive me.

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