Will you?

Will you love me?

still, even when I run out of funny things to say; when the draw of my wit slows, and I can no longer keep up?

Will you love me when I cease to hold secrets? when the pages have all been turned, the dust disturbed, to reveal that which lies beneath as being nothing more than that?

Will you love me even when there’s nothing more to search for? when my body ceases to do as it’s told; when my eyes see no more of the room than your hands clasped in mine; when you need to repeat things so that I might hear?

Will you love me in spite of my failing intelligence?

The mistakes I make—will you love me despite those? Will you care to hear the things I say? Will you hear them at all?

Will you love me as you did, when you did? Will you tell me you love me like before? Will we embrace and warm ourselves? Will we share those quiet moments to ourselves? What then? What if I’m no longer interesting? What happens when that silence is no longer reassuring?

Will you think of me? Will you miss me and dream of me? Will you love me as no one can? Can you?

What happens when we wear away? when the shape of me changes, and my voice, what then?

This time of interest, of exploration, of excitement, I’ve watched it fade. The golden hour dims to darkness, a darkness inside which nothing more than ourselves can be found.

I’ve watched it dim so many times, that now I think I see better in darkness. I was loved. I was cherished. Adored. But now only darkness—myself alone in it.

And so to darkness I ask,

Will you love me?

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