Your preference for her
     is all too clear
and becomes more obvious
     each time you turn
     away from me
     to seek her out.
I'm left behind, reeling
     from your silent insults,
breaths stuttering as I try
     to comprehend
     when I stopped
     being good enough.

****.
I hate knowing,
    KNOWING
ways to make it all better
and being simultaneously
unable to take advantage
of those socially unacceptable
escapes of mine.
I have to just be here,
plaster on
my societal face
and it's all so ******* fake.
So fake.
All I want to do is give in
to the ever-taunting whims
that are begging,
pleading for release.
It's a dangerous game,
one I know I can't afford to lose
but ****
is it fun while I'm playing
with my deadly vices.
****,
how hard it is
to say no sometimes.

I dismantle you little by little,
pick you apart piece by piece
as I edge you ever closer to the precipice.
Your curiosity is titillated
by the tantalizing nothings
I whisper to draw you near,
promises I never intend to keep.
I tease as we creep, and you have no clue
as to the depths of my nefarious intent
until the moment I lay my hands
on your chest
         and push.
Your hands catch, grasp tightly.
So I lean forward and gift you
with one last kiss
before I stare into your eyes
as I peel them from the surface.
Laughter pours forth
as I witness your fall
from high above.
I turn and walk away,
my deceit complete.

We're terrible at goodbyes.
It's probably what we're worst at
in our relationship.
We suddenly turn into one of those
mushy couples everyone gags around,
unable to part each other's company,
constantly returning for "just one more."
Goodbyes are the worst,
and we **** at them.
Yet every time you leave me,
I am left with the hugest grin
on my face, unable to contain myself
because someone such as you
loves me so dearly
that it's a struggle
to part ways.
So although I know
I'll miss you terribly,
and we quite simply **** at goodbyes,
I'm always left behind
in the best of moods,
filled to the brim
with my love for you.

You run into the station as I'm pumping gas and come out with a gigantic cup of coffee.
"I know that usually by this time you've had three or four cups, and this was the biggest they had."
I take a long swig, and it's the perfect combination of caffeine, dairy, and sweetness.
"I love how you know exactly how to make my coffee," not knowing if you realize how much significance I place on this small act.
"About three-fourths coffee, one-quarter milk, and a ****-ton of sugar," you say while smiling at me so casually.
It's not a big deal, and yet it is. You pay attention to the tiniest of details, take notice of the most seemingly insignificant parts of my day.
You have no idea how much it means to me, how much value you have added to something such as this cup of coffee.