I do not love you...

I admit I have stopped loving you:
That fresh jasmine face,
Which I bore in my arms through so many nights
In sweet sleeplessness,
And tendered with utmost care,
Does not haunt me anymore.
I do not miss those tales
of passion and allusions –
Allusions to you and me –
That you used to tell
While waiting for sunset (or, for moonrise,
But you never stayed so late).
Nor do I love that shy smile
That tempted me into that...

Why, I am a sensible man.
I know when to let go.
Your name is like an epitaph -
To be read only with silent respect.

But why does it make me anxious,
Whenever I hear it in random discussions,
Or read it… in my rusted memoirs,
Even in someone else’s name?
Why is it that any other face,
Any other smile,
Or allusion,
Falls like rain on barren land?
And who can account for that abstract company -
That idle apparition -
That distracts me in a most intense conversation?
(I felt lost during my job interview yesterday!)
I wish it were a disease
Which I could find a cure for,
And let myself go as well.