I will not fall in love again

 

You tell me you have one fear. 

It is that I will fall in love with someone else.

I have loved others. 

Yes. 

Before you.

Since you. 

With the gentle but not so graceful spill of a broken heart leaning into the wind. 

Like crushes built on lustful thoughts 

or the admiration of sweetness. 

It is not falling. 

I will not fall in love again. 

Every one of them has evolved to no more than a friendship now. 

I never told a single one of them that I loved them. 

It’s not my heart to give anymore.

But you know my heart.

 You know how it never does anything small. 

You know it will bastardize 

and cast out 

and take back at a lower return the word, “love,”

 because I have to find a way 

to alchemize the oblivion to survive in this world.

You said that I would fall in love with someone else again.

 There is no such ability. 

Do you wish a poet to swear off the word “love”?

 Do you wish me to never be intrigued by another’s capability to fold my heart, however hollow?

 Have I lost you because I have already fulfilled your greatest fear in the most laughable, pitiful way possible, 

Do you not get it? 

I will not fall in love again.

My greatest fear is you would leave me here, and feel justified in doing so because my heart could joke out some semblance of a lie... 

Some shadow, of a shadow, 

of the love I feel for you.

That I cannot be with you. 

That you could be erased from my eyes and that I wouldn’t even have the ability to see you through pain if it was my last option. 

To lose you utterly... 

that is my greatest fear, as spoken one year ago.

Still true. 

Still you. 

Still cold. 

Still beautiful.

I want to sing. 

I want to grieve.

 I want to burn. 

I want to fly. 

But only... with you.