If you still love me, stop.
Run for ten thousand miles,
then row halfway across the Atlantic,
and when you're finally far enough away
from every other soul,
dig down and wrench out all the things
you think you feel for me
and all of those memories,
the ones that keep you up at night.  
Then, when you've gathered them
all up into your shaking hands,
drop them. Watch them fall and float
to the bottom of the Atlantic.
It will hollow out a piece of you;
don't fill it with anything, not yet,
leave it empty, just as my heart was
when I told you
my love for you never existed,
but oh, how I wish it did.