It’s not hurting enough, she says with latticed eyes

and he wonders if he could ever fill that void;

there’s just too much space between them though he

clings like a cheap scarf, all static and stubble.

His hands fit around her waist, her neck when

her own barely circumnavigate the glass.

Those too-small hands can be coy or cruel

and cold is the sum of their robot parts.

Disgust disguised as distress - the ever-actress

will substitute pain where passion is wanting.

Half-way content they retreat to the everyday

of the soy sauce fish and park bench sighs.

The damsel decomposed stretches tiny digits

towards any semblance of love, however small.

He is always too close.

He is always just the nearest warm body.