Nothing

I imagine, vacant eyes,
the cold of the walls
against your forehead.

Nothing.

There's sweat embedded
into your shirts, your scent
probably flavoured in my dreams.
I imagine your drawers,
a mess like I am, arms of textile
entangled in a sloppy embrace.

Nothing.

I remember the guilt
for letting you love me,
the messages I so
heartlessly denied
from brainwashing.

You joke about kissing me,
and I see nothing.

Nowadays not hurting you
is only a question of moralism.

27-02-2014
10:59 PM