I'm not sure whether it’s the swarm of parasitic tasks we busy ourselves with
that wedge between the two of us,
as if work supersedes love.
Or is it the stress that is curling its fingers around our throats,
digging its nails into the flesh and thickening the air
until we choke on tension.
Tension that could be replaced by passion
but instead takes the form of a dying flame that desperately cries to be tendered to.
Perhaps it is the distance that is more than just geographical, but the gap that truly lies between our close chambers of slumber so that every night gets colder, lonelier.
What I do know is the fear that resides in my heart, the panic that becomes depression that whittles me down to a measly core,
one that cannot so much as hold itself up against the wind, and before it can recognise it,
blows away like a tumble-**** in my barren mind.
Barren, empty, soulless,
but I, I have my soul.
Yet with each passing day, half of it dwindles -
the half that is you -
for I have sacrificed that half for one who I was sure would have my heart forever,
but in both petrification and melancholy,
feeling definite in it is not surely so.