Remorse code echoes wistfully only the clock tocks as she taps her foot because she's ticked off.
So I stumble through the rue morgue rueing all of the words I could have said left utterless. In the stance of repentance regret poses me like an egret, shifting from one leg to another unbalanced by my calm qualm.
Apologies would be apathetic, contrition would not yield fruition, in the nation of self condemn.
I am at this moment
it's soul citizen, and so I walk with contriteness to her dissapointed face.
Lifting her chin tenderly, then drying her tears
with a smile as I set free her sorrow with a passionate kiss, that she eagerly embraces in acknowledgement