I cannot remember the sweetness of my past lovers' bosom, and for long, I did not know of hers. But that day, when I betrayed her - I knew. I realised, I knew. I knew that they did not feel the same, I knew that only hers felt right. I knew, so beautifully - even as my infidelity was in full swing, as the breast of another woman was in my mouth - that nothing from now could feel right. But she does not know - and I, did not tell her.
And all this I learnt, from difference; the difference between this, and that. Between love and sex. Between right, and wrong. Between what was meant to be, and what was not. Between the wondrous consummation of the soul, and its destruction in vileness.
But why? Why did I not grant her the forgiveness to know it too?