There are many things I shouldn't say. I shouldn't, for example, tell you about the tunnel that now leads directly to your house from my basement. I also should not admit that it opens into your room via your closet, nor that I've heard your voice at 3 am when you thought that you were alone. I shouldn't tell you the way I punctured the hole up into your closet with the door-knob that I pulled off of the storage-room door because it didn't lock quite right. And that through that hole I occasionally deliver notes that I could've just as easily sent through the mail, and that as soon as they're written in the first place, I regret that the words are mine at all. But regret is the method of my life, so I put my doubts aside and search for an envelope. As I lick the useless stamps, it reminds me of the songs we'd listen to and the books we'd discuss and how you intrusively and quite without my consent left your taste in my mouth and how I'm now paralyzed from the chest down. My heart doesn't work right and my breathing is always shallow.
And I like to believe that I couldn't ever go back, but it's like convincing a train to abandon its tracks.
And one should never do that.