You don’t kiss me boldly, it is shy.
You are withdrawn from me, listless gestures encompass me now.
Your love is volatile, you only let me see what’s underneath you when you’re so sad.
And you loathed the smothering love I gave to you.
You were vicious and sharp with your end of us, diverging your own way from me.
But now that you are gone,
I miss your florescent skin against the black night,
I listen to Leonard Cohen alone in my room, when I used to do that with you.
I miss the empty crevices in me that you use to surround.