That she will no longer be allowed to sleep with her head on your chest and her hand, a tiny fist at your shoulder, her leg draped over yours. That he will no longer be able to enter your body. Those are closed avenues now, you decide, while taking a walk together or sitting with your sunglasses on inside, while the chamomile tea goes cold and you shred a napkin as deliberately and calmly as you are ending love. And time has gone by. Whether you did anything about it or not.
Time Goes By.
And the pain became acute. Floored you with its violence and persistence. And then it got better. Or maybe not. Maybe it got worse.