of amour. It's self-
preservation. I've grown poor
in spirit. I can't grin and
bear it for another day

It's not lack
of ardor. None have tried
harder than me. But I can't live
a life of make-believe.

It's not lack
of rhythm. With him
for sixteen years, dancing to the beat
of the snap of his fingers. They're now
my triggers.

It's not lack
of fit. I just can't sit with this. I'll miss
him. But the ride is over. I'm not
a leftover.