I almost wish I could say it hit me like a wall,
But no, it was more insidious.
Did it come as a shock?
Did my heart skip and stop?
Palms sweating in supplication for a mistake of the presses.
Some tragic lovelorn last minute revalation?
But no, it was not.
It was something that slunk its way into my life.
Much the same way you did
Apathy runs her room temperature fingers over my flesh.
And I am not aroused, clinically, insignificantly.
I find today the carcass of a fictioned love,
ties his lacking-soul to another.
I almost wish I could say it mattered.
Because then if it did,
what I thought I had felt,
might have been real.
but it was not