This is not an English poem, the fear of showing emotion, look at my stiff upper lip, wrapping words of love in cotton wool. The truth is, my Dear, I don't care for you, but my cowardice is a deep river so profound I can't come and say: I don't love you anymore.
Flowers sent, the ring I gave was out of pity and guilt hoped you would sense the chill behind the gift and frigidity of feeling. Under a cloud of pusillanimity, we'll wed, live near a hairdresser salon for you, and a park bench of Autumnal leaves, for me.
Unbridgeable the distance between us, I will go on dreaming, and you will scream at, my passivity till there is no reason left, the useless wind brings no seed to replant. This is how it will end because I lack the gut to say simply. “I don't love you anymore.”