Sitting here.
Face wet, body tired.
Immobilized, frozen in the horror of memories,
of stale wants and preserved fantasies.
The horror of desiring, yet never to receive.
Never to kiss that warm neck.
Never to unbutton that soft, worn shirt.
Never to gain a kiss from that beautiful smile.


Sitting here.
Choking on so many desires.
Lodged into the back of the throat they threaten to ****, you can't make a sound.
But they make no promises.
All they bring are silent tears, and the echo of everything you will never have.
It fills your head, the loudest thing you will ever hear.
It is fact.
The fact is that nothing survives.
Everything is subject to ruin.
But not desire.
Not love.

They end when you do.