I'm probably going to read your messages and imagine impossible things happening,
And maybe I'm going to reply too soon;
Perhaps I will enjoy our conversations more than I should.
And in a week or two we'll end up talking from mornings to yawnings.
Eventually, one day, you'll stop being as keen to keep talking as I would be.
My heart will wrench painfully at the thought of not talking to you at all--
And I will try to keep up, only to realize how futile it is.
I'll probably give up on any speck of hope at that point and be so thoroughly disgusted with your flippant attitude and my gooey naivety,
That maybe I'll never respond to your half-hearted attempts at stirring up small talk after that.
Because I will be done.
I will be so, so, so done.