You watch me, but your eyes do not see me; they look through me, empty.
You converse with me, but your words do not reach me; they slip away in the opposite direction.
You speak of the future, but you seem to long for the past, a past in which I was never a part.
I feel like an open book that you flip through but do not read, blameless yet destined for oblivion, as if I were the whim of a frivolous soul.
And yet, I continue to love you, and so I speak to you, but you do not listen.
Then you get drunk and push me away, you abandon yourself to the company of others, then you come back to me, even more intoxicated, and speak words of love to me.
I wonder, should I believe your promises when we are alone, your behaviour when others are around, or the confessions you reveal when alcohol has soaked into your body?
