The Decay

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It’s hard to love you.

I feel the decay creeping in. Can you feel it? The slow rot of the years eating away at us. The sun, once our source of warmth, has burned away everything that was hidden until all is revealed. The weeds have overrun the garden – the tree we planted has been stripped of its bark and has wilted. The old picket fence that surrounded the yard, once painted white by us together, has returned to its original wood grain. Termites has burrowed into the posts and rotted away the foundation.

Things have changed.

Our love, never truly declared (since that’s impossible to do with love), will not attempt to do so again. Our hidden secret will stay hidden, as it should be. You turned your shoulders away when I hesitated to touch them; your lips, once honeyed, have chapped with my hesitation. You were a mighty crown atop my head, that I placed proudly there in secret. But when I left the throne as I encountered life and couldn’t stand to show my pride, you could not bear it.

I was home, but despised the hotel I committed to. So now the home is overgrown.

Can you feel the decay? Can you feel your posts chewed by the termites that I left? Can you feel the twist of your bones in their joints as we both slowly begin to crouch with age, beaten by the sun?

Can you hear me saying goodbye?

Can you see me standing there, on the side of the path, as you walk forward without me?

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