Somehow, and every day becoming more apparent than is to my liking, I know that your absence from my life is less a question of your love for me than it is of mine for you. And this intuition tears at me because though I think to myself that I want to do so... how can I possibly ever love you as perfectly as you would have me do? Experience tells that either my purse-like heart is too small, or the price of perfect love must be more than I know how to pay.
And yet! How can this be? After all, not having the price to pay is one thing. Not being willing to pay another.
Can it be I've lied to myself all these years? That it's not you withdrawn from me, but me withdrawn from you -- having wandered away and become lost in some unseen sentiment whose once sweet content now leaves me so strangely discontent?
It seems implausible and yet, in spite of the pain of what has been this perennial longing, the evidence speaks well. And though difficult to endure, still I must listen to what your prolonged absence tells.
What's this I hear?
...That what has been at the center of my own heart all this time has been me? It's really too much to imagine! But with what I know to be true of your Love, there can be no other explanation for my emptiness.
At least now I know where not to look anymore.