I am no longer infatuated.
I hate it.
I did not realize how filling it was
Until it was sated.

You do not intrigue me.
Neither of you.
I have no wish to speak to you now.
I am through.

It is worrying, the way I cease to care.
An unending cycle.
I'd raised you on a diamond pedestal.
Yet you still grew dull.

I've written poems dedicated solely
To my inability to describe you.
To describe you two.
I am through

I am empty, cold, and exhausted.
You are not warm.
Your pedestals have fallen
And I am forlorn.