Precariously on the knife’s edge
I think about you, I do not love you. But I tell my self that I do.
Because loving you would make this okay, right, meaningful.
Wading through ever shifting sands of granular emotions
I reach for you like a man dying of thirst in this desiccated
wasteland of relationships and social interactions.
You see right through this intricately constructed facade
Behind, the lid of my eyes, I hide , I burn with shame
But there is no water here, these wells have been dry
Nothing exists here but memories , phantasms.
If I were still the old me, I would seek to elevate,
I would gush eloquently, rant in grandiose form,
Extoll my appreciation, my desire , my love.
Yet, these are nothing but my walls, my bastion.
I see the disdain in your eyes , I imagine its intensity,
Yet, my need for your burns brighter still.
As if feeding off the flames of your indifference.
It seems I have never quite understood,
I am the moth and your flame burns like a beacon
Signalling my fall from grace, from equanimity.