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love as a form of suicide

i love you so much that
i die a little
every time i remember
that you are no longer mine
and you never will be again.

i wake up
in the middle of the night
with tears on my face
after dreaming of you
again.

i remember that
your angel kisses
will never
bless me
again,

that your soft lips
will never again brush mine
in a greeting
or a departure.

i cry
when you embrace me
because we will never
again share
the warm embrace
of lovers
or friends
because of your
prolonged death
at the hands
of an unfaithful
child-lover
of yours.

but you are still not
fully dead.

you still suffer
every time you breathe.

with every beat of your
tragically broken heart
a knife pierces your soul
breaking your spirit
against her memory
even as
my broken heart
does the same.

when i think of you,
your deep kisses,
your soft touch,
your warm embrace,
your broken heart,
beating in time
with mine,
i can feel it
with our bodies
and spirits
so closely entertwined.

and i know
i am dying.

and you know
you are dying.

we are dying,
slowly,
painfully.

love,
a vengeful mistress,
plots
and waits
for us.

we die,
you for her,
and i
for you,
and we do not
stop
or think.

we can only
continue
our chain
of love not returned.