I wonder when it changed.
When I started doing the bare minimum and calling it enough.
Occasionally checking in, asking questions with no real intention behind them.
Guilt lifting off my shoulders each time I performed.
I didn't ask because I cared, I hadn't cared for months.
I followed the dance of love, a routine I knew every step to.
I ignore the truth I realized long ago.
We aren't what we used to be and will never be that for each other again.
At some point I stopped asking altogether.
You've never complained, always taking the bits of myself I offer to you.
Or simply a ghost of who I was for you?
Do you respond? Do you love?
What is love if not the fear of being alone?
Are you afraid of being alone?
I know how I would answer if you truly reached out again.
Missing what we once were.
How can we find our way back to each other?
But you don't ask, and neither do I.