I'm sorry. That's the beginning, and that's the end. I'm sorry. Two words which could mark different sides of the spectrum.
There's an invisible wall between us, pushing at my chest and forcing the air out of my lungs and the courage from my muscles. I can sit and wait and hope all day, but that won't mean that when the time comes, I'll shine; it means I'll probably crawl into shadows and cry myself to sleep.
This is what I get for being a child of spring with a soul of winter. I enjoy the bright colours and the tang of life, but I'm most at home once the trees have shaken off their leaves and strewn their fragmented selves across the ground, ready to wither and rot and fade into oblivion. I've not the hale of summer, nor the mirth of spring. I have the poetic soul of fall and the invisible nature of winter.
I'm sorry I cannot break free from the lines which melt around me and wrap me into the background. I'm sorry I could not come forth and speak the most simple words of simple words. I'm sorry I passed up an opportunity that I may never have again. But then, it was a tentative opportunity anyway, full of awkward potential. Perhaps it is better unrealised.
I'm sorry. I should not always be the one apologising.