Our life together was alliterative, and when I think of all the little things which will die, now that we cannot share them, I feel as if we were dead too. And perhaps we are. You see, the greater our happiness was, the hazier its edges grew, as if its outlines were melting, and now it has dissolved altogether. I have not stopped loving you; but something is dead in me, and I cannot see you in the mist … This is all poetry. I am lying to you. Lily-livered. There can be nothing more cowardly than a poet beating about the bush. I
by Vladimir Nabokov
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The speaker reflects on the deep connection shared with a loved one, expressing a profound sense of loss now that they cannot experience life's small joys together. They equate the dissolution of their shared happiness to a kind of death, suggesting that their intimate bond has vanished. The intense emotions they once felt have faded, leaving behind an emptiness that feels almost irreversible.

Despite this sorrow, the speaker admits to still loving the other person, even though something vital within them feels lost. They acknowledge their struggle to articulate these feelings, recognizing their poetic tendencies as a way of avoiding the harsh truth. In this moment of vulnerability, they confront their own cowardice, revealing the complexities of love, loss, and the challenge of expressing such profound emotions.

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