You turned to me, but not with flame—
just with the weight of silent blame.
No hunger there. No aching need.
Just duty dressed to look like deed.
You said “okay,” like it was war.
Like peace could wait behind the door.
And when you moved, it wasn’t grace—
just absence written on your face.
I kissed you like I still believed,
but even ghosts know when they’re grieved.
Your hands were there, but far from mine—
a gesture stretched to meet the line.
You thought I wouldn’t see the cost.
That love was here, but simply lost.
You gave me what I’d begged to feel—
but nothing given cold is real.
You touched me like it was a chore—
as if my ache was something poor.
And I, still starved, just played along,
pretending it was not so wrong.