He was quick and he was nothing,
Almost something, but still nothing.
He had an unattractive uncertainty of himself,
And desire to change into whatever I would love,
But I would never love anything about him.

He was transparent and flimsy,
He tripped on every word he spoke to me,
He was a shadow to step into on occasions of loneliness,
And that was all.

But as all things do,
even that became old.
I wore dark lipstick to draw him away from my mouth,
And bared my cold shoulders to keep him estranged from any warmth I had left.

And he still loves me, for some horribly stupid and poetic reason.