How can you be so sure, you ask.
I can feel it in my bones, I answer almost instantly, unthinkingly.
Just as the words leave me, though, I wish I could take them back. Because they're not true. The truth is that I don't feel a thing anymore.
I don't feel the urgency to respond when your name flashes across my phone. I don't feel the rush to check why you're calling or what charming lies you've sent my way in your message.
I don't feel the slow smile creep up on me each time I see you. And, I don't feel my every pore come alive and do the mexican wave across my skin each time your arm brushes mine. Neither do I feel the promise of warmth and safety in the crook of your arm nor the reassurance in your hug.
You no longer inspire poetry. Even the sad rhymes have dried up.
You still make me laugh, though. But your reciprocal, knowing grin doesn't turn my insides to mush. The butterflies in my stomach have long since flitted away, in search of greener pastures.
My eyes no longer seek yours - from across a room full of strangers, or during a cozy evening with friends, or even from over the candlelight.
And, when you smile your devilish smile to flirt, tease and charm other women, I smile my wry smile. I've seen through those words, words you throw around with no consideration for their meaning and implicit promises.
Time is no longer a traitor. I no longer have to plead with it to slow down, beg for one extra moment with you. Time has let go of its schadenfreude ways and we're friends once again.
So, go on. Leave your guilt and my heart at the door on your way out.