In the Ending of Things

I lied. I lied to someone who means the world to me. And I'm not going to say how I lied because I know you'll read this, and that would defeat the purpose of the lie all-together. Please be happy. That you find happiness is the greatest joy I could know.

But there's a selfishness inside of me that's dying to know something I have no right to ask. I read the question I see passing into my view as it circles my head endlessly until I have no choice but to say it out loud: Will you still wear my ring? The one I got you when we talked about commitment and shared dreams?

The broken voice beneath my lungs grumbles that I tell you not to. That you have no right.
The voice bred of selfish fears demands I beg you to never take it off. At least, in that way, you have a solid reminder that I am truly real.

We are still friends, no matter the 'ex'es, and I much rather this than have you disappear. And we only talk less now because you have more life to live, the knowledge of which brings me much pleasure.

And I am happy because I know that I still share a part of your life.
And I am crying because I know, in the ending of things, I lied.