It used to be fun.
laughing in the warm glow of the setting sun.
your arms around my shoulders and
the blackness of your lashes heavy on my lips.
but now only the disdain of your cooled ardour remains;
scratching, mindlessly, at the hollows beneath my cheeks.
even the shadow of your fingertips repulses me.
even the turgid brush of your gaze.
now I wish you would disappear, like the setting sun.
but you rise again every morning, like that blighted star,
and only hate lays heavy on my lips now