Waned
By

    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.

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