I do not love the touch of your skin.
It no longer feels like silk.

I don't want to lie to you.
I don't want to hurt you.
But I don't think I can longer love you.

Your voice is monotone.
I can no longer hear the summer warmth in it.

When I'm with you I feel lonely.
I don't want to hold your hand.
I don't want you to see me this way,
so why am I still with you?

I no longer look at you the way you still look at me.
I don't want to break your heart,
but I don't think I can longer love you.

You were once the light in my eyes,
but I always feel a sliver of ice keeping me cold.
You see I found this other
who makes me feel warm
even when I'm frozen to my very core.

You were kind and you are beautiful,
but you deserve someone who will call you lover
and every time greet you with a kiss.
A kiss that'll make your head spin,
but trust me, darling I am not that kiss.

How should I recite my life?
Was it a full sentence
or was it parted in two?
Did it entail big words
or meaningless clichés
shouting carpe diem?
Did it have depth
or did length bare it out?
Did it trip on punctuations
or did it flow painlessly?
Which parts lingered on tongues?
What orders did it give?
Did it fade among greater
paragraphs or was it magnificent?
How should I recite my life?
Should I clothe it in borrowed
metaphors or should I simply
read it out loud, word by word,
stress the culminations, the loud parts,
give extra sound to the little words?
Was it a meaningful sentence?
Will it linger on and get carried
in the mouths of men?
Will it serve as a citation for
great living; or will it simply be
forgotten as the sentence ends,
the last syllable is whispered
and the full stop
is finally
engraved.