It's starting to feel
like
we are on different planets.
I can almost live
without thinking
of your existence.
I never wore
rose-colored
glasses.
If anything,
my sight was clear
as day.
Even seeing and knowing and
feeling (in my heart)
your derision,
and disrespect
and distaste,
wasn't enough
for me to detest you.
Your unloving
was what made it
intoxicating.
But it's hard—
my body still wants
yours—
even when I beg myself to become distant.
You are the cold,
unfeeling,
frozen ice.
And I the fire,
warm, caring,
vulnerable.
The elements clash and sizzle
when you almost press against me.
It's just a game to you.
I'm tired of feeling
forced to play.
Moreover,
no love
is still
no love.
