I find that my heart is sick - it is a sickness that eats away at my very being. I fear that the only cure for my tattered heart is your face, the sound of your laughter, the warmth of your hand entwined with mine. However, even if this medicine were readily available, I could not accept it. We are far beyond that point.
My reason cannot help but tell me that you are not the last man I will love. But this only makes my heart break all the more. I had so wanted you to be the love of my life. To grow old with you, to die with you. For us to have a whirlwind romance that would shake the very earth beneath our feet. To love as none but Tristan, Isolde, Romeo, Juliet, Darcy and Elizabeth would fathom.
I so longed to be in love when I was younger - little did I know. If this is love, then I want nothing of it. My heart breaks anew with every thought of you. It is unbearable torture. To have my soul weep within me and have no one to blame but myself. What a fool I am.
This is my favorite time of year - the flowers in bloom, the breeze playing an ever constant game of tag with the trees, and the sun smiling down on it all. I believe I would enjoy it immensely, if the remembrance of you did not weight so upon me. Ask yourself, my dear, whether you are not very cruel to have so tricked me, so destroyed my freedom.
It was long ago that you absorbed me so fully and yet I find myself still entirely unable to separate my soul from yours. Perhaps this is just an illusion though, for you appear to have no such difficulty. You seem to have forgotten me, detached yourself from the pieces of me and flung them aside without a backward glance. So I am left to gather them alone, to mend what I can, and to hope that one day I will stop loving you.
