love is artificial;
a synthetic drug everyone
craves, although it seems to
always be out of reach.
love is bland;
where are the sparks?
I feel this immutable nothing
with hands laced
in the hands of others,
containing nothing but time between.
I am uninspired
and unexplainably tired
as I mutter each soft spoken breath,
time is slipping through  
as each fictitious word is withdrew,
and I stand alone
uninspired
and inevitably
out of use.