You dropped me like loose change into a homeless man's Burger King cup.
I would have preferred to be thrown, to be smashed into a hundred thousand shards of broken cardiac muscle - because at least that would mean you had made an effort.
I wanted you to push me away with all of your strength, leaving me to trip and fall right out of love with you.
But you merely nudged me aside - too weak to break the chewing-gum strands which stretched between my lips and yours.
I was stuck and I was craving, maybe out of habit rather than desire.
Too short to reach the emergency exit I was left wishing you had made me feel a little taller. There were twelve inches worth of difference between us, everything that you were and I was not.
But I guess I got it wrong.
You are not six feet two inches of man You are six feet two inches of cowardice and your extra large t-shirts correspond to your extra large apathy.
Because you didn't care.
You didn't care about my five foot inferiority complex or the five feet of reassurance it would have taken to make me feel worth something.
But I will not be confined to the gap between your height and mine.
I have the strength to pull myself away and snap those chewing-gum strands I don't need you to make the effort I'll make it myself.
And if you still feel inclined to drop me like loose change, that's a **** lucky homeless man.