I know I can’t waltz back into your life like nothing happened, as if those scalding words said were blessings and not curses hurled. I don’t know why I misconstrued the things you said and felt you didn’t respect me. I’m a capricious man, swept away by impulses, rarely heeding reason, and seeing every aspect of a situation. I didn’t care about how you felt and simply cut you off without looking at things from your vantage point.
I wish I could take back the things I said and reignite our friendship; go back to the golden days when we messaged each other incessantly, and spoke for hours on the phone, when you cared and I reciprocated with kindness of my own.
I’ve learned the hard way that some friendships are rare and precious, and one must clasp them with strength and conviction, praying that things don’t fade. But I let us become ashes. I let pride and a false sense of purpose damn us, turning a purple, drooping, delicate, fragrant wisteria into flotsam.
But I will not embellish this letter with more figurative language lest it become another superficial ‘prose piece’ that prides itself on the language and vocabulary used, and doesn’t convey what it should. I don’t want these words to lose what you’ll find if you read in between the lines. It’s the simple truth that I’m sorry, and although I expect you to forgive me (considering you’re generous and sweet), I don’t expect us to become what we used to be. And even if you don’t forgive me, I’ll let this stay, carrying with it power that stems from guilt and regret.
Just a Writer 
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