Dry Ice.
That's how it feels,
sitting her across
from her,
her gaze once so full
of passion
as dull as the fish
that stare at me
from the display of ice,
already long deceased,
this thing I assumed as rea
l, yet, not real in the way I thought,
this need to feel as if I control
what happens when I
control nothing,
floating on the
surface
of some emotional pool,
looking over at her amazing eyes
and realizing they no longer seek me out,
glazed over when our
gazes accidentally engage.
I thought to be relieved,
having escaped my folly
with so little wear,
only I'm not,
and do not even know
what it is I want.
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