Every night she weeps:
empty relationship.
She is prone to thinking
Empty bed would excite me more.
What had begun with much promise:
the one, Love,
washed away in time,
withered shell left behind.
Emotions on the backburner
everything else in front;
fun is only fun when enough is enough.
Ennui abound.
He sits on the couch,
hedonic calculus in effect,
devoid of utility.
Hirsute chin accentuating
day-old garb.
Pleasure is present but
purely physical at best:
no measure of depth.
She had plunged into his deeps
and the water only reached her ankles:
enough to cool off.
Never will she dive again;
no need.