I Love You To Death... And I Don't Think We Should Talk Anymore

I love you to death.

And I don’t think we should talk anymore.

Because the last time we did,
I felt something tighten in my chest,
like my heart beat a little less.

You see, this happens every time
I say there’s something to address,
or something you confess.

I love you to death.

And I don’t think we should talk anymore.

It’s just—when we do,
something inside me lights a fire,
and it warms me.

But then the flames get higher
and consume me
until there’s nothing left but smoke.

Where did the house go?
Has it always been ashes?
Has this always been all we know?

I swear there were rooms once,
somewhere beneath the soot,
somewhere before every conversation
became another match we struck.

I remember warmth.
At least, I think I do.

But memory gets strange
when all it has left
is smoke to look through.

Maybe I called it shelter
because I wanted somewhere to stay.

Maybe I kept calling it love
because leaving had a harsher name.

I love you to death.

And I don’t think we should talk anymore.

I still know the sound of your laugh
before you try to hide it.

I still catch myself reaching
for things I know you’d like.

There are whole parts of my day
that still arrive shaped like you.

Songs I save without thinking.
Stories I turn toward you to tell.
Little things that would mean nothing
to anybody else.

I know the version of your smile
that means you’re trying not to stay awhile.

I know which silences are easy,
which ones mean something went wrong.

And maybe that’s why this is so hard—

because I don’t have to stop loving you
to know that it will kill me young.

I love you to death—

no further,
perhaps to heaven as well.

I mean it.
I truly do.

But I’d be lying to say
that loving you so
hasn’t been putting me through hell.

So I don’t think we should talk anymore.

I don’t think I should talk to you.