What might have been?

I guess that's what I wanted to say.

What?

That I thought we really had something here. That's all.

Me too.

So now it is I who should forgive the sweet liar (for no such optimism should go unpunished).

____________________________________________

He still tells me he loves me every morning

and as I emerge from a haze of restless dreams

I often wonder if, with each passing day, in these tragically sweet moments,

and before the commitment of dawn

if he means it a little less than the day before.

Overtones of disappointment punctuate our every move.
Our present is muted by our future and what might have been a great love recedes as quietly as it came. 

I study his face - 

his pores

the crinkles near his eyes
hints of silver at his temples.

He can stare at the ceiling, expressionless,
for so long

but when I ask him what he is thinking he says

nothing

and I'm afraid that I believe him.

Meanwhile

my brain is abuzz with sensation

constantly churning and negotiating and wondering

(overthinking)

and this is how I know he will do fine when I am gone for good.