You ask if I still love you. I don’t know
why it should matter now. I always say
I do. It’s what you want to hear, and so
I fudge; it costs me little either way.
My egotistic darling, for your part
you must like thinking that somebody cares
enough to sit and nurse a broken heart
through silence and indifference. Unawares,
you drift away like summertime, and then
when I’ve forgotten how to love, or why,
you turn up wondering how I have been,
and once again I offer you the lie
that strokes your vanity. I’ve no regret.
Enjoy the gift. It’s all of me you’ll get.