It’s funny to me that you should think that I ought to love her any less by now; as if loving her somehow diminishes my capacity to love you too. Ask yourself this question though: “Should he love me any less a year from now?” You see, a year’s a long time and a woman I once loved said to me thence: “Life is long.” (I’d asked if we’d never love again.) Yes, I’ve always loved her; and always is everlasting. But I wouldn’t have it any other way you see? Because I love you differently now than I loved her. The passion is different, the spark another color. Your eyes unique, your smile distinct. You are much more beautiful than her in ways that only you can be. I would be honored to delve into you for an eternity of eons. It’s funny to me that you should think that I would love you any differently. In truth, I suppose, that you should wish I’d loved her more. Maybe then I’d have perfected the art of loving. A rather delicate art that is; a skill and yet a truth.