Twaddles

I could talk forever,
Talk until I'm blue in the face
Of how corrupt this love now is,
I could tell you ideas
That all the things you harbour are based on selfishness.
But it would be futile, it would make no sense.

As tight as the bond once was, being with you
Is like being alone, with discomfort,
Yet still a bizarre security, like a blank void.
A void, when I look at you and see myself.
The clear wall abounds, and why must it be?

We stood face to face,
Now rather back to back,
Now only our walls touch.
We do not.
Perhaps we never will again.
Perhaps I'd like to put myself in a place
That doesn't hurt.
Oh to be coy!
So I would be unaffected by emotions
And use them for toys, to play with
And twist, and burn.
Burn to the ground.

Love; no wonder it's so hard to understand.
Hate is hate. Anger is anger. Sadness is sadness.
Love is a vague melted medley of all that is.

There is a room in my mind where I keep you.
When I leave, I would slam the door shut, hard.
One day the hinges dissolved beneath my tears.
And now there is no more door.
The contents of the room