In So Many Words

"As has been learnt as of late, that indeed what does not live nor last for longer than a fraction of whatever words I may utter, echoes everlastingly in the now vast emptiness of your heart. For that, I am compelled to at last attempt at accepting blame for my actions foreknowingly aware that such will only deepen hurts long gone and worsen the chance for a truce in the future.
Thoughts best described as impure, and intentions far less evil if settled for being called dishonorable, that is what I commit myself to now to describe what I have had towards you. Not that you did not have your suspicions, but a man would like to think that he would go far further distances under the pretense of having led, than of having to follow. A love abused that which obviously has meant everything to you except for the one thing it meant to myself. Nothing. Even in my current state of being consciously attached to the history of who we are and under the liberty I have taken to guess the fondness you had thinking of what we were, I feel nothing. A little bit of shame, perhaps. But not sorrow. A hint of compassion, of course. But not mercy. Fairest is to say things have been the same despite your absence. A dent forever engraved in my being is something which I assume to be for you of unfortune that I report has not occured. Scents, whispers, and touches have meant a lot more.
I believe a woman can go from undying love to absolute hate towards the one who she at a point in time sees clearly was never too fond of her for the same set of reasons she would have rather been appreciated for. With it, comes closure. For that, I write to you this letter sincerely believing that it is a much easier route taken than living with an unattended heart forever," I wrote her back.