I’m sorry is an infinite phrase,
Yet so woefully inarticulate:
It does not show the hollow space,
The horror of err it seeks to placate.
How it tries to stem heat and hate
Is it not yet so weary?
Change must come and tethers broken
So why do I feel pangs at your dislocation?
I know you said friend, I said not lover
Yet I feel an invisible strain, a smothering cover
I reach your image in my thoughts, I caress your skin
In my mind’s eye I see your Cheshire grin
I don’t need this, You don’t want this
Yet I touch my lips absently remembering your kiss
And I begin to chant that there can be no more of this
Dissipation and passion a cruel tryst
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