I'm not certain.

Darling, i do beg your pardon. I am aware you are chasing a future that you yearn, and work to the bone for, every single day. It has not been long since I have witnessed your resilience, yet, i believe at least long enough. Last night's conversation was uncharacteristic, again. Yes, indeed it is not the first time you were vulnerable anymore, although, no matter how many times you speak to me as though you're truly letting me glance at your heart for once, it never fails to haunt me. Why do you do this, beloved? You ask me if my affections for you have faded, and you say you hope they quit making me ache, and depart. Yet, is it my optimism morphing your guilt into desperation? For it is but impossible for me to accept that you'd be so adamant on knowing if I have overcome the potent memories of what we shared, not when i can almost taste your desire to hear that I am still waiting. We have both agreed, time and again, that it was not love. Yet, it was something, yes. It was enough for me to never wish to give you up. Even though you're silent, even though you've been crude with your words at times. I am a fool, perhaps, always have been. Do I sound pathetic, hoping, subtly, that you and I could still ignite an inferno out of the shear sparks of tension in thin air, visible to noone but us? How pathetic indeed.