I can remember when I left you,
No.
When I saved you,
No.
When I condemned you.
When you offered me your heart and your lust and I took them into my own and cursed myself with the role of a lover.
I accepted the gift but at least I felt conflicted.
Enough so to soon see that giving you joy meant denying what I am.

I am nothing but contradictions.
A hypocrite with a most debauched nature.
While I wished for nothing more than the red of your petals,
So too did I wish to lay with the weeds.
Much closer to my own kind,
like me they choke the beauty from flowers.
Only with a little less love in their grasp.
So I shifted from you and in poetic spirals of ink I set you free.
At least that's how I saw it.

But now I realise just how much damage a week with me is worth.
Your eyes look dimmer.
A layer of spite and tears stop me seeing any further than that.
Your petals didn't fall but they certainly faded.
What was red became black,
A hell I never wished for you,
And I can only pray that your shade is much more superficial than mines.
I hope it will wash clean and reveal a purer white than a spotless bride.
But that's just a dream.

Hearts are easy to see when they're worn on ones sleeve,
And I've changed hers for the worse.
A fate I had not foreseen and now she can't even see me.
Everything I once admired has drifted from her face.
But it's been replaced by perfection of a different sort.
Had this been clear to me I could have hid who I was.
It would have been worth it.
Just to leave her as she was.

If I confront her will she pour this new life into me and be as she should be?
Or will I leave her in the same void of pain and passion I found myself in?
I swore to watch over those left behind on the path to bliss,
But not those I dragged back myself.
If only I could send her back on the path.

Another letter perhaps.

Dear Rose.
I love you.
I'm so, so sorry...