I will not love you less.
I won’t meet you for that coffee. I will not sit in glaring light and hardened air, the hover of history between us. I will not settle down across from you, nerves tapping tabletops, our eyes never holding.
Pretending I don’t want to pull you close or feel your hand against my thigh.
I will not play with sanity, or wash this clean. I don’t have that artifice in me, or your ability to skim over the storm and swell of our wild, wide sea.
I could not bear the loss so casually, the diminishing of what we used to be. You cannot, must not ask that of me. Not when I have loved you so desperately. Not when you have been my life’s fatality (love should never die unhurriedly).
I will not – not ever – love you less, or with any less of me.
“And somehow the memory of how complete we used to be – is keeping me from you.”