I love you less with every passing week
but I don’t want to tell you my dismay.
My closest friend no longer whom I seek,
I’m harboring a secret I won’t say.
For wouldn’t I be selfish if I told
unrest that may have little cause from you?
And yet my silence desecrates the gold
we struck when we agreed that we’d speak true.
I thought I wanted intimacy more
than any other circumstance in life.
I figured we in love could best explore
our selfy depths – for that I’d be a wife.
But from today I think us doomed to fail,
for speech is wound and silence is betrayal.