The air in my lungs isn't breathable.
He knows I'm always looking for you.
Blood won't reach my hands.
He said my hands are always too cold.
I haven't felt warm in ten months.

"You're happiest in the summer."
"Yeah, I know." He stares at me,
always watching,
like he'll linger long enough,
see the crack in my disposition
and he'll be able to patch me smooth
and serene again.
If it wouldn't give me away,
I'd laugh.

The people we love, or rather,
The best or worst versions of ourselves,
forever condemning us—
either rise to the unattainable occasion
or fall weary against our worst selves.

"I love you," he says. I smile,
looking at him convincingly.
I don't feel anything.
Be it on the tip of my tongue
or the edge of a lie,
it's cynicism
all
the
same.