Every whirlwind romance is another Kleenex.

Every good night,

Every y-chromosome obsessed with sex,

Is just another thing to regret at sunrise.

Every argument won,

Brought to a triumphant surmise,

Is a friend lost.

Every belt undone,

Is re-buckled in silence.

Is this what matters so much to you?

Fast, emotionless, explosive encounters,

To numb the pain of solitude,

Ended only by the awkwardness of realising

That you’ve been used?

Thrown aside like the tissue you substitute -

It's just another rumour you’ll try to refute,

And for what?

You know,

And they know,

And they’ll come back,

Wanting more.

More lustful warmth

That will freeze you to the core,

Ice the rug-burn from the bedroom floor.

And what am I?

Frigid? Probably.

Awkward? Absolutely.

Have I been stupid? Positively,

Am I happy? Not completely,

But when I love,

I love deeply.

Yet you, you, you,

You’re alive.

What you do is what you need to thrive,

You’re a fire-dancer,

And I’m the ice queen.

Watched constantly, but never seen.

It is the vibes I’m giving off?

Whatever it is.

Pass me my hip-flask;

I have drinking to do.

Then maybe,

Like a hurricane of sunset colours,

I can dance, burning in the flames with you.

The End

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