I have loved you for over
three-thousand (consecutive) days now,
and yet I still feel as if there are
two-thousand more secrets to learn
about your intricate mind.
I have a sketch of the general areas:
pleasure, pain, past, future
but I'm still a little fuzzy on the
specifics of each location.
I hope, with all my heart,
that I will have one-thousand more
days to love you.
But only you have the capability
of giving me that privilege,
and so with the best of intentions,
I let you go.
Like a bird, you will return if you love me-
if you don't, then I guess you never did.
They say this often, people, I mean-
"the other breed," like we used to call them.
We fantasized that we were different;
special in a conceited sort of way.
And I guess we were.
But underneath the facade,
there crumbled a dire misery
about our love,
and now we are where we are.

The end.