We will stop talking in the future.

We will stop talking slowly in the future.

I might still be smoking the same old brand of cigarettes 

we used to smoke.

Or even keep the dresses 

you left home after a quick visit.

But.

Slowly, in the future, we will stop talking.

I might still listen to the same Playlist we created.

Even keep the movies we love to watch over and over again.

I swear I will keep the books 

we kept exchanging, and sure, 

I will go through the highlighted neon green letters.

Over and over again.

I will go through the old hard disk full of our selfies.

The one on a rainy day in the cable cars over that dam and gardens,

The one at the railway station when 

I was saying you a brief good bye.

The one where you looking at the stars, 

I can barely see you but you still there, 

looking at the stars and gazing at me often.

But.

Eventually, in the future, we will stop talking.

I might call you occasionally over a long-distance phone call. 

And I am sure I will ask about your mother's arthritis.

I will always keep in mind about your niece, 

and we might exchange words like how fast time is going 

and how fast he is growing.

We might tell we still love each other 

over some messaging app.

But.

By and by, in the future, we will stop talking.

I might love how we love each other at the good times, 

and I might hate how we love each other at the miserable times. 

I might even remember your birthday 

or try to look up the websites to deliver some flowers to the distant land where you will be living.

Then I remember you saying you don't like flowers 

and cancel everything. 

Why you don't like flowers? 

That would have been so easy, I might think. 

But

As the day turns dark. And do the same over and over again.

In the future.

Ever so slowly,

We might stop talking to each other.

Love ends as it begins, as it should be; 

as it will be.

Ever so slowly.

We will stop talking in the future.