Darling,

I miss who you used to be

and I know you miss

who you thought I was;
And I know

we both know
things will never be as
amazing
as they once were;
Though you will try
to fix it up with your
rough words and
decisive eyes
and I will lay down a blanket of
gossamer metaphors
to keep our glamour alive.
Our affection has died

it's been polluted, love
and our fingers have forgotten
how it feels to be locked
in the spaces of each other
moving more quickly to find
those soft, vulnerable corners of flesh
that so easily
burst into pain--
Our sweet nothings
are nothing
but a casualty, a mere
tradition
so we can say Goodnight with as clear a conscience
as we can manage--
And I can empty my loneliness
onto my sheets
as you taunt the stars once more
with your
unholy smirk and defiant gaze;
But one day,
my metaphors will dry up
and your logic,
twisted around so smoothly,

so sinuous, oh so sinuously
to encompass the impossibility of us
will grip us tighter, ever tighter,
suffocating the remains of what we were;
One day, our playful banter
and wrist-bumping
and needless, pathetic apologies
will not be enough
and then maybe we will

finally
find the strength to admit
what we knew so very long ago,

what we have known, darling

since the very beginning;

it's over.