It's nothing personal, I just don't want to finish you. We're in a different place than we were when we started seeing one another. We helped eachother grow, and now I just can't stand to work with you anymore. You were always there, looming at the back of my mind. I'm sorry to leave you so unsatisfied here, but I'm having trouble bringing myself to finish you off. You interest me, yet the redundancy of articulating what you stand for is killing me. We're not compatible. I already got off, and you're still waiting, unsatisfied. I'm tired, I want to go to sleep, and there you lay, demanding a finish.
Well fine. I'll finish you. I suppose I must. But after this afternoon we will say our goodbyes, and you will be handed off to another, more critical party. I can't stand to look at you anymore, you make me want to run laps around the stacks in the library, just to avoid you. I've been cheating on you with William Carlos Williams, Jean Sartre, my bicycle, and anything that does not relate to the things that interest you. Been there done that. I understand you, but I simply do not care to finish you. The whole coitus seems pointless when I see no gain upon completion anymore. So, you, me, in the library, next to the periodicals, lets do this, once and for all.