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Tears seem to well from my very skin when you tell me you love me.

You are the most beautiful man alive.

You alone allowed me to live,

gave everything you had to give,

and when I died were only sorry you couldn't have given your entire life for mine.

Tears spring when you remind me this, and that you'd still give it all.

I do not love you.



I am going to break your heart, and I know what a broken heart is.

I am killing you.

The guilt about my un-love is almost heavy enough

to ground me down to you, but I won't.

You told me to tell you when I stopped loving you.

Well, I don't.

I do not love you.



You, an oasis in the desert of men,

You, who had never known a love like ours,

You, who, when I was about to drown myself in the ocean,

whisked me out and let me learn about hope in your arms.

You, who didn't want me, didn't need me,

but now exist beside me as if we were born of one heart-

you.

I will do you this harm.

I do not love you.



I want to love you.

I still know the things I knew before about you.

You are the kindest person on earth,

probably the last who could ever save me from myself.

You are much, much too good for me.

And I'm so sorry.

You have no idea how much I wanted to.

Have your babies, buy you a house,

devote my life to you.

But somewhere along the way we changed.

I'll still die for you, you know.

I will scrub the floors of your pretty home,

kiss your childrens cheeks and slave for your wife.

I'd almost rather do that than run off and love again,

just to prove to you what you once meant to me.