I'm drunk,
and your sober,
but it doesn't change much; as our thoughts still parallel.
*****,
*******,
I love you still; as that is always the case.
It began with joy,
turning to contempt,
was this all your ploy?
or just a failed attempt.
Excuses are apparent in every conversation,
my love is like food, and we've begun to ration.
But isn't love like a communist dream,
of one giving up everything,
to make two supreme?
But when greed takes a step in the game,
it turns into a game of blame.
For we may be different in our acts,
such as me drinking a bottle; with no thought on impacts.
I don't recognize the alienation,
of one I viewed as a blossoming carnation,
as the red color drip from my flower,
and I realize our love has lost all power.