Wish you were only a cold-heartless f*ck
I try not to think about you. I genuinely do. It's when I enter my empty bedroom at 7 in the evening - when I see a couple in the lift - when I stop at the traffic lights and notice the girl embracing her boyfriend on the bike - a fleeting thought of your absence comes to my mind. But the taste of betrayal is so bitter, love doesn't sound sweet anymore. The loneliness in my bones makes my spine short. I feel dwarfed in a room full of couples. I'm 5 feet 10 inches though. Don't get me wrong, I'm way past our breakup. I don't crave the wetness of your lips after I put the empty glass down on the table on a Saturday night. My fingers don't itch to feel the depth of your cleavage. The heat of desires dies the moment I recall the coldness of your unapologetic face. It feels like freaking Antartica - and - I feel like standing on a glacier stripped of my innocence - sinking in the ocean of your lies. I gasp for sanity. It's cold, brutal and emotionally