appreciation's dregs

I can't appreciate you
enough anymore. It's
as if I've said it all, and
it isn't enough. I don't think
it's you. You don't stop 
giving best you have got,
and my tastes haven't changed,
just my well run off by the mouth 
you have drunk yourself
half full, yet my wad is shot.
You wince. What a gross metaphor
to let fly! You observe, but I didn't,
you see. The point is I have nothing
left but blanks. The "wad" in this sense
is a balled-up page, quite dry, not
anything jutting or vigorous. Though 
I sense by the way it strikes your eye
it might sting a bit. I am sorry for that.
Chagrined and abashed, yet I confess
somehow secretly glad and relieved! 
You've bled all the red there is
from my words, you've engaged
and guessed all, from blush peeping
in-between lines, to plain black and white.
Now all that remains is a milky sheen,
which a seer or sage of ancient age
might take for a sign, reading patterns
upon you for days where I have
come clean. So pure and well, spent
is the currency I have laid down this
time. It was all from my deepest 
or lowest base. I believe
the apology here
is mine.