When love dies, it kills

November 22, 2008

A love lost, more pain than never knowing. It cost my life and now its showing. I learned a long time ago to never let it have me. For me, with you, the consequence of loving seemed so distant and insignificant in light of the experience. Now, although I will never propose that it wasn’t worth it–my God, you were and are still my everything; but, love itself, is dying within me. The constant flow, in and out, has abruptly ceased. It pierced me –from the morning hugs, the nightly discussions, the intimacy, the words of encouragement and reassurance of worth and so much more, I never even realized that I was growing dependent upon these drugs. What little I had to offer seemed to matter– my expressions of care, protection and providing, my encouragement and reassurance of you, the intimacy and passion, my purpose and a reason, my beginning and end and everything in between. All have gone. Love no longer presents itself. All that was entering has died. All that was exiting is in the process of dying and as it rots, it holds the spade of grief, relentlessly digging deeper. In all this, I would do it again for one day with you. Love has died but you keep me alive. Love without you is nothing.


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