My love evaporates and enamors my muse as if by excision.
The heart that once beat for me alone is now accosted by his words, his actions, and how he feels about me.
I challenge-
and I tug a thread that can pop at any minute-
wincing at the snap, fixing the snags, and tying it back.
Scared of the facts, unravelling at the insinuated endearments
choking on the caramel ganache fondness and remembering the taste even when it is absent.
Gnawing at him, grazing his ego, biting at a lost tongue.
Holding onto his one letter and two words even when the answer changes.
But how?
The change is almost inarticulate-
Like immaculate penmanship in the hands of someone growing tired and unamused.
The strokes are no longer deliberate.
In the beginning, the change isn't nearly as significant.
Not until it is too late, and you find yourself having ripped the page.
My love, just admit it, you are unenthused.
You have convinced me that I am driven by insanity and half-truths.
You are holding on to a love that is familiar to you.
My love, are you just as scared as I am too?
