The act of loving one
Who brings none
Of which you've dreamt
No heaven, moon, or sun
Nor crumbs from
Where they've crept
They leave no indents
In your bed, you wonder
Where they've slept
No sweet mornings nor 
Peasant nights which 
You can recollect
The suicide in romance
Leaves an urge, a pestering itch
You yearn for touch and worship
Better than the bothersome twitch
The more they leave you wanting
The more you begin to glitch
Are you real you ask them
They answer with the purse of lips
You cannot recall the stem
Of taste that answer seems to give
It seems as though they condemn 
You to your nature to forgive
Am I real you question
What is real when all is smoke
What's true is the oppression
That they wear as though a cloak
Soon you'll wake from under
And it'll all have been some joke
To this you fall in slumber
While they try to smother their laughter
Trying so hard not to choke.