Empty hands
with which we have only tears to fill
The remnants of a mosaic of dreams

Dry lips
No longer embraced
No more romantic thoughts implanted

Untouched body
No longer explored, admired
nor of wondrous curiosity expressed
more cursory or habitual

Empty eyes
No longer are side glances returned
No excitement
No expectant joy
No flicker of a lasting impression

Lonely Breath
on a cold sheet
in a dingy room
by a leaden heart
to an indifferent stone

I'm miserable and stupid for writing this

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