I kiss her, I love her. I mean it, I do. I wonder how much I’ll miss her. I’ll deserve it if it’s a lot. I’m used to having enough but wanting more, working hard, and getting it. With this, it’s not wanting more that’s the work. Now that I’m about to leave, I don’t want to. But I can’t forget that when I wasn’t going to leave, before I told her, I thought it was the right thing to do. I love her too much to think. I still try, and the thoughts come, but they change like the seasons. The sun shines; it rains, snows; and the leaves fall—all in an afternoon. But I’ve always loved her, since I told her for the first time. Even when I leave, if I ever do, I’ll still love her.