This Valentine's,
it will be four years
since I last spoke
with you.
OK.
Well.
So.
I love you.
Maybe?
Less.
For sure, less.
It doesn't hurt so much.
It just is kind of sore
when I think about you,
now.
It isn't like a stabbing thing,
with the gush of tears
and the deathly anguish.
It's just really sore,
like a bruise,
that won't heal,
that clings on,
a tenderness
that won't leave my body,
my mind.
Sometimes,
it makes me smile,
that pain when I think of you.
It's all I have left of you.
Sometimes it makes me angry with me,
for hanging onto pain I have no reason to keep.
Maybe it's not a tenderness,
maybe it's the pain of emptiness
that comes with being
perpetually perplexed.
Why?
When will I stop asking why?
Why?
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