I measure his love by the ferocity of trembles as his body enters mine. I quantify his desire by the hunger in his eyes that was once ever present. I count the seconds between his head touching the pillow and his hand reaching to touch my skin. My doubt blooms when I am unable to remember the last time we danced, drank wine and shared our wants until dawn wrapped us in her light. And when his lips taste mine, I am already anticipating the end.
It occurs to me, in my need to compare and criticize, I am the reason for our demise.