What you won't say
is what I like to hear you speak
in my frozen dreams unwillingly,
to say that I speak your heart,
within hidden words looking for empathy
while their meaning dies
and my tears dry.

There is a lull
in the sententious sentiment of mushy loss
of color-blind imbalance
tottering with immature lust
built along cumulative stony bondage
of love erected like dunes of desert stones
mirroring pity with subconscious simulation of joy.

Where are you?
A frame of humiliation and dirt.
I insult you with your own coins,
dishonored by rejection
borrowed into concurrent denial of revenge.

You call it retribution
before a death wish
growing horrific by the night.

That's how we see each other
Not with eyes but with suspicion.