Echo of Unspoken love

The things that kill us the most is the one which stays with us the longest.

Some were taken
by your beauty,
somewhere, destroyed too.
Some were taken
by your heart,
somewhere, destroyed too.

But why am I the one
still hearing the echo?
Or is it that
I had truly loved you?

Saying "I love you" in a poem
and saying it in front of you —
I hate myself that I couldn't.
If I had,
would it have been us
instead of
it might have been us too?