I Don’t Love You, Like I Loved You, Yesterday

Try as I might,
and as unkind as the thought makes me feel,
I could never escape the fact that the only time I don’t feel lonely is when I’m not with you.
I went to look at the lake,
four AM,
when the waters were hushed and sleepy.
I imagined myself surrendering to their depths,
one foot in front of the other, until steps were no longer possible,
and my only possible position was under the weight of the water,
thrashing at the sudden peril of it all.
I didn’t see you.
Do you see the problem?
I didn’t see you,
at the shore,
hand extended and face painted with panic.
It isn’t because I don’t think you’d care,
but more because if I was drowning, I don’t think I’d want you to be the last face I saw,
so in my fantasy (almost) death,
I was rescued and comforted by somebody else,
later drowning in the guilt of how certainly you said that I belonged to you, and how uncertain I was, the more I thought about it.
I never asked you for your affections,
or your aggressions when you didn’t get back what you thought you were owed,
and no,
to answer a very old question,
when I go, I would not have the guts to say,
I don’t love you,
like I loved you yesterday,
primarily because I didn’t love you yesterday either,
and it’s so hard to help you come to terms with that,
when every inch of kindness is magnified in your eyes,
and becomes some fanciful declaration of love,
that never would have left my lips in reality,
but we’ve been living in fantasies for a while now,
haven’t we.