I don't love you.
I suppose I'll have to tell myself that.
For days.
For years.
For eternity.
For the lost love we shared on that street.
And all our saturated days together.
I don't love you.
Even now it's a lie.
April. Warm up my bitter heart.
Let this dreary snow rest in ribbons of warm sunlight.
I don't love you.
You are the sun.
And the snow will fade slowly into soft steam.
And fall again when the sun meets it's end.
Then, I will stop loving you.
I might.