If little by little you stop loving me. Then little by little I am certain. You have stopped hating me too. Those things are never apart you see. Nor ever in opposition. You cannot summon a storm without warm waters and cold atmospheres. I cannot love you in summer, and then only hate you by winter. So I think when I stop loving you it will be a future in autumn. When I find myself jumping on to a rather big dry leaf. Where I think out loud about its crunch. And not very much of you at all.