It's not that you don't love me.
You love me in fragments
In small bits, from little corners
In small moments in time
When out of time
Some wanton memory
Reminds you of me.
It is then that you love me.
And I love you with my being.
All my broken parts stringed together
Into a complex whole.
I love you to the extent of my unbeing
Until there is no more of me in me
It's only you.