(Not) In So Many Words

"And so it seems, once proven and forever, that promises do indeed last forever - not in the heads of those who promised but in the hearts to whom promises were made. Indeed, the more I loved you, the more you didn't care.
Why? That which I have given, I gave not out of kindness nor for my love to you, but for my belief that to you I belong and with me all that I give is yours by default. You have shown me that the faster I see myself falling down, the further the ground escapes, refusing to accept the chance of being accused that it was she, the ground, that killed me. So I fall. But I don't stop falling. Until then, I am yours. Sometimes, it all makes sense. Sometimes, when I think about it, not so much. I tell myself I am accepting of what you have done, but that would make us both just as guilty. Guilty because we have both violated the same thing. Me, rising to the stooping down of our level. All those words you said, it wasn't about the words. I believed them for your voice. All the places you touched me, it wasn't about the touches. I felt them for it were your hands around me. Everytime I remember, or everytime I try, fail, for I insist on forgetting the words and the touches and only long for your voice and your hands. What is it that is so right about you that makes me more wrong. Why am I addicted. I am not dependent. I know it. I am addicted. You know it. But why, you cannot tell for you do not know. Or so it seems. Because I think you, too, are addicted. You are addicted to your voice and to your hands, because, quite obviously, you seem to choose not to settle for anything else, regardless of how similar, to replace them. Tell me why. No, explain to me how. How did you become so vain. The more I break, the stronger you gather - only to break me some more. Stronger. Still falling for the ground escapes further since now I am falling even faster. And behind that door, I last. With you pressed against me although I am not there. Taking what is yours and me loving the hating for the loving of my hating for my accepatnce to give. No, to return. What is yours. Me. Still I want to apologize. For whatever I am returning of me. Broken," she wrote to me.