She stood aghast at everything she’d constructed;
everything she’d attempted to see.
In truth all she had
was a rather bad tad of a luxurious feeling
And all she now desired was simply to be in the arms
of the lover she had fallen
in love with.
And it really seemed trite, as simple pleasures
often might: but she
didn’t care what they’d be thinking.
All she could sense was the sadness of
badness entire: the loneliness of being lonely
lying next to another, who’d
turned into a stranger
in the last curious years.
And yet if you’d asked him why suddenly, quite
damningly it had happened, why he’d forgotten exactly how
to love her,
he would probably reply, this weirdly and
openly, that when he’d loved her as
she had assumed,
actually no physics had transformed at all.
And the thermodynamics of
a love such as this
were probably as remiss as her own inability
to make up her lie:
they’d never truly loved each other, you see;
always a convenience