I no longer wish for you to look through my eyes. I know that I have little to no influence over you any more.
I want to be alone with you (if even for just a moment) but your fear is tangible - in every word that you utter is apprehension. You are afraid that, if you and I should meet alone, I could persuade you that she is not right for you, that you are settling for less than love.
I sense that you don't love her. You talk about her as if she were clinging onto your shirt-sleeve, a little girl constantly wanting attention. That was once what I was like, but you never talked of me that way, never patronised me. I was so young when we started, but you were young then too - we were smitten, a pair of cooing lovebirds, until one flew the nest.
I half fear and half hope that, if I chose to, I could convince you that I am your other half, the one you should hold onto for dear life.
Sometimes I hate you. Irrationally, of course, as I was the one to break your heart. But