La lettre anonyme au amant

I used to be able to do allegory and cryptic stories to which only I had the key.
Now my head, is filled with Butler and Hayles and Tiptree.
And queerness. That I can talk of to no-one. Not even, to my surprise, you. Not fully, anyway.

I used to be able to charm. (You should know.)
And hold your attention.
Now, I don't fly as high as I used to.
I'm getting older. More this. Less that.

My many admirers have slowly and steadily fallen away.
Chosen other lives.
And I,
I've chosen this.
Steady, boring devotion.
Crazy steadfastness.
And for just this moment,
so have you.

But tomorrow, when you change your mind.
(You're not one for being tied down, are you?)
Trade comfort for interest.
Warmth for excitement.
(Although I trust your reassurances and know that right now, you won't.)
My heart will shatter.
And I,
will die.
Uncharacteristically, quietly.