I was not worthy of you

Of the language I was assured, of the gestures an adept. Acts of affection and generosity, flights of desire, sighs of apology…all these I did. But I did not listen.

I swore that I saw you, heard you, accepted you. Perhaps I believed it when I said it. But none of it was true. What I beheld – tried to hold onto – was nothing other than what I wanted. The you of my figuring, my fantasy. My weakness. The dread, the knowing, lodged in my gut…that you would see clearly what I strove to deny. That it was all about me. That I was blind to you. Deaf. Chronically unaware. That my selfishness and immaturity was not mere neglect; it was cruelty.

No matter I did not mean it, nor comprehend it. No matter I am now humbled. That I have since recovered from the drama of my own regret, and from the theatrical sadness of losing you, changes nothing. The plain fact remains.

I was not worthy of you.