Just as I cannot choose
who I love or when I love them,
I cannot choose whether or not
my love for you will eventually die.
I don’t know how long this flame
will burn on its own without you
here, before it goes cold from
your absence and neglect.
Nothing more than tepid ash,
soot, and unrealized potential.
How much time do we have left?
To be honest, I don’t want my
love for you to die, it isn’t right.
Not this way, none of this is right.
It doesn’t feel right for it to
fade for no discernible reason.
I can’t accept that my love
for you is bereft of purpose,
that nothing came of it, no fruit,
just a slow death, barely a whimper.
That it was... a waste.