Older, Colder, Foul

You no longer love me,

I understand:

I've lost your love

to the ice in her hands,

to the lack of warmth

within my chest,

to the size of my eyes

and the weight of her breasts.

Yet in a word

(or twelve, or two),

is all that changed

only in you?

Am I not older,

colder, foul?

Lines and freckles

dress my brow,

and I am surely

less inclined

to let you see me,

as you find

it fit to treat me

like a whore.

You hold me less

and mock me more.

I am quite tired

of this game,

but neither of us

is to blame.

Or maybe, rather,

both of us

for losing patience,

want, need, trust.

The sky is still

above us, dear,

and I'm just fine

without you here.

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