And the thing is, I know.
I know why the ground beneath me gives way,
why the hole in my chest creaks bigger.
It is a love I could not cultivate,
that I begged for in its inferior synthesised form,
that I steal from the eyes of others.
A fire I could not kindle,
and so,
I long for your spark,
knowing all the same that it is not the same.
It always blows out sooner than I think.