i wish i could write you a poem everyday,
pray for you, for us, habitually,
but there must always be some sort of longing,
of uncertainty, of chance for misplaced hope,
for misplaced love

for that is what love is:
knowing that there will always be a day
when i’ll never speak to you again,
whether death may come,
or hatred—-the desire to leave—-grows into our souls

or we wake up one day, to find we no longer care