The lips that touch upon my brow
Leave nothing but regret.
Not for who, or what, we were;
But for what we always forget.

The feelings we have are palpable,
Graspable by shame.
Not the shame for what we felt,
But for our sins all the same.

Our hands meet as a final depart,
Our eyes unable to touch.
The story between us sits unspoken,
Voicing it would express too much.

Apathy, in your eyes, runs rampant.
Empathy, in my soul, runs dry.
The ineffectual affection stills,
Leading us, the silent, awry.