If I knew what to write, I would right it. If I could, I would tell you how I've replayed the tape and identified all the instances where I went wrong. And once I'd found them, I'd want someone to judge them. Is there at tribunal? Because if there was one, I would prostrate myself before it and ask for its forgiveness.
How long do I have to be sorry for squandering you?
I read somewhere that when someone's wounded, the first order of business is to stop the bleeding. So I found a tourniquet for you. I can't be sorry for that.
But what's next, exactly? Explain to me, please, how I go about finding an experienced surgeon to suture up the holes when there's this big fleshy scar in his way? Who do I tell all the details to? Who do I direct how to save you? Who judges you now when I've deemed everyone else unworthy?
My mom explained how white knights are always in demand but she's pretty sure we don't need one anymore. She said it in a nice way, and I agreed.
I just wish I could tell you how I went wrong and why. I would make it all better for you and I would save us. And if I couldn't do that, I would tell you to forgive me and give us clearance to begin again. But you'd have to mean it, because I'm running out of patience. Aren't you?