Face to face, body to body, that's how I wish I could look at you.

The articles describe some sort of  traumatic scar.

The pyschologists diagonse an empty hole in the center of us.

With your presence, they say, I desperately try filling it.

So, I fill my bucket with cement and spread it over my heart's hollow surface.

No one looks at me the way you do.

No one has held on after all these years.

But, you've already slipped away.

I've let you go and soon you'll realize that I'm gone.

You'll look around frantically like before and grow unsettled once again.

But, this doesn't sound right in paper or in speech.

What would I give, though, to hear your voice tell me long and imaginative tales.

That won't happen, though.

Because your actions don't reflect your words.

And, your blank, careless eyes now look like mine.

Because I don't care enough, just like you.

Now, I can finally say, we both feel the same way: indifferent/careless.