I know it’s selfish, no matter how good my intentions are, to gamble an entire being, an entire soul. To one second hold you, swallow you up, stare into your eyes, and the next to belittle you to a moment, something of the past. I know it’s selfish, the moment I sense fear, to walk straight out the door, let you go without grace, as if your heart means nothing. And after all this, the selfishness, the taking, I still have more nerve to undress you with my fingers than pick up the phone, call you, and apologize for walking out. This is how you let me go.