Good evening, my love.

I brought you flowers, they're your favorite. Daisies, or...wait was it roses? Delilahs maybe? I'm sorry, you of all people knew how awful I was at remembering things.

I'm sorry I couldn't make it last night, I meant to, honestly. I even got a nice suit, had it all ironed and ready, but...I couldn't bring myself to leave the house. The thought of seeing your family all gathered there...the thought of seeing you in the...I couldn't.

I'm sure your family wouldn't have been too glad to see me either. You probably told them all about me, the attitude, the anger, the drinking, all of it. It probably would've been too difficult to explain how a writer had no time to spend with his wife. I've given up on the excuses now though, I'm tired of trying to justify myself for the terrible things I've done.

I found something kind of funny though; this pen. Remember how it brought us together? That first poem I wrote, just for you. Looking back on it, that poem was terrible, cheesy with a basic rhyme scheme, but it got you to say yes right? All those stories, poems and songs I wrote for you after it made you just as happy. Once those stories started to pay the rent they lost their charm though, didn't they? Once the pen started writing for the world to see, it forgot who it originally had written for.

Of course I can't just blame the pen, can I? It was me holding it after all. But once editors and deadlines came into the equation, it was almost as if the pen had a mind of its own. It was as if I chose writing for the money over writing for you.

There is no "as if" though...it's what I did.

I chose the success over my muse. It's no wonder why I hate everything I write nowadays. It's because I had lost sight of why I was writing, and only now have I remembered that...the reason was you. It was always you.

Seems almost too late to apologize now though, doesn't it? Too late to apologize for all those nights I spent at the desk instead of at the dinner table. Too late for me to apologize for drinking the stress away instead of talking to you. Too late to tell you how much I love you, how I did all of this for you, in a way. It's all just too damn late.

Better late than never though, right? Better to learn the error of my ways the hard way, rather than continue to live the rest of my life feeling justified in my choices. I just wish the hard way was something easier; separation, divorce...not this. At the very least, it should be me they put in the ground...not you...it never should've been you…

All this money, all this success, I'd give it all away, die in poverty on the streets just to see you again. Just to be reminded of how fortunate I was before I sold any of those stories, before I became a greedy bastard, before I let this pen take over my life.

Back when the only thing that mattered was you, and I was content with that.

But it's too late to fix anything now, isn't it? There's nothing left for me to do. The money's lost its appeal, I've lost you, I've got nothing left to write for.

I've got nothing left to live for…

You were my world, even if you couldn't tell...even if I couldn't tell.

You were my heart.

You were my muse.

You were the one who believed in me when no one else would.

Now you're gone.

Soon enough I will be too, I'm sure.

I hope found it in your heart to forgive me, because I never will.

I'll see you soon.

Goodnight, my love.