I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would spend countless hours writing poems for you.

I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would perform seppuku so not only I could remove the pain of you being with another man,
but I could show you all of the scars in me that you left behind.

I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would construct convoluted, conniving catastrophes in which every man that hurts you gets the plague.
I would spend hours on your facebook hoping for a hint that you still care,
And not care that the amount of time spent thinking about the idea I have of you could be used to possibly pursue another,
Though all I want is to be wrapped in beautiful white cloth with you,
Swinging slowly in the warming sunlight and talking about nothing but everything is felt instead of heard and the intentions of what is said become blindingly more important than what is heard.

I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would hold it deep inside, though the sight of your car outside his house at three in the morning and the news of your new job and new tattoos drive pins covered in ‘I love you’ into the pit of my stomach, promptly followed by bowling ball to knock them down.

I don’t love you…

…*but if I did, I would pretend that I don’t.