She feels too little
He feels too much.
They meet in the middle
Only one mimics touch.
He says he loves
She says that too.
He asks, "do you mean it?"
She replies, "of course I do"
He compares her soul to the beauty of life.
She makes him a sandwich
Convinced it will suffice.
He grabs her hand and places a ring
She smirks and shrugs and says, "sure thing"
He wants an argument and a play of words
She looks out the window as nothing is heard.
He brings home gifts and recited affection
She portrays acceptance and calls him perfection.
She is the poetry that pours out of his mind
He is the man she chose to pass the time.
Hand in hand they both look fine.
Others envy the farce, they shine.
One believes it true
The other knows it's a lie.
The sociopath and the poet
A oddity at best
He loves her more with each second passed
And she can only love him less.