Too

I cannot calculate the loss I feel
Each time she walks away from me. A chill
Runs through my bones; the world appears unreal
As if it were a blight upon my will,
Sapping away my power to create.
Yet I survive it, every time, because
I must, if I am to attain the state
Of her nearby again, as it once was.
To die for love's a silly thing, you know;
It leaves the chance of love reborn to rot,
And loses any hope that love could grow,
Immortalizing what was never got.
So though the loss is painful, and beyond
My calculation, I am not too fond.