My heart: your mess.

You say you want to protect me,

to protect us,

that none of this could ever work out.

It can't

but not for the reasons you give.

Your imminent departure is less of an issue

than your absence, is what I mean.

Ithaca means nothing when your heart isn't in it,

and yours isn't.

Has never been.

Will never be.

You kiss me without feeling,

you're Louis XVI to my Marie.

You hold me, your grasp is tight but the connection weak.

I'm trying to stick a magnet to paper.

The motions have been gone through,

will be gone through again.

When you brush your lips against mine, our mouths will be

the only things that touch.

You say you feel for me,

I can't help but read into your words.

You don't feel romantic,

you can't say you care.

You feel pity, for the poor girl with her heart in the place where

her sleeve should be,

clinging to a time, a touch,

that was, like a mirage,

never there.