It’s uncomfortable to constantly be on guard.
Worrying about the things you say and do being judged.
A selfish, shamelessly self-centred organism.
But, I’m comfortable enough to tell you this.
I’ve been thinking a lot
About the pointlessness
Of any emotion that isn’t self-serving.
So, what is this big fuss about love?
The existence of which is in itself highly debatable
But what do I know?
The stark futility of expressing to people
How you feel about them,
when they clearly don’t need it –
Evolved, self-sufficient bastards.
So why tell you that you’ve been on my mind?
Memories of you make me feel empty.
I do not love you unconditionally;
I do not want to possess you;
I do not dream of touching you;
I am not enamoured.
In truth, I don’t even really like you.
You were real.
You were here,
I “felt” things.
Like I was more
Than just an organism.
Like my meaningless existence
Was completely acceptable.
Like I wasn’t alone.
I miss you.