Don't Love

Don’t love me.
Don’t say
you do.
Please—
Don’t
love
me.
Life is
unnervingly
short
and I will
most likely
leave you.
My own
mortality
knocking
harder and harder
at my door,
shouting--
pestering me
to keep living faster
to keep moving forward
to keep the past, past.
I can’t
breathe
steady,
because it inevitably
means
I’ve stayed
in one place
too long.

Life should keep you
out of breath
as long
as your lungs can
possibly withstand—
otherwise
you become a shell,
lacking
that out of body
entity for which
I cannot fully explain
with words—
But I sense it—
I sense it
there.

I feel the
separation
of my self,
the separation
many a night
and day,
and
I often wonder
if others
notice the
difference
the way I myself
have come to.

Who is the body
I was born within?
Does she fit the
mind I have?
Can they work
in a simpatico
sort of fashion?

The constant
questions
I fear will only
become solved
when that good
old mortality
stops knocking,
walks inside
my home,
my mind,
and takes me
away,
in the most
fitting of ways.

So,
don’t love me
for I will leave you,
or perhaps
eventually
you will leave
the two
of me
first.