"Why do you love me?" I ask.You reply with many reasons,some of which being how When I talk about my favorite book,I always obsess over the characters and my eyes take on a whole new formas big as dinner platesand they sparkle like the fourth of July. And when I'm sad,I just lay my head down on your lap and let the words pour out of my heart,feeling like a literal weight was taken off my chest. And how I can never listen to musicwithout singing,even if I can't get the tune right. But lately,when I talk about my favorite book,you just nod along, eyes staring straight past me trapped in your imaginary world that I can't seem to reachno matter how hard I try. And when I'm sad,you bring your knees to your chestas if my heartache is contagious,and one touch from mewill cause if to seep into your bones. And when we drive,you turn the music downso that there's only silence. So how am I supposed to love myself when all the reasons you said you loved me,were all of the reasons you said you left.