Dis-illusioned

Was it really so hard for you to be real? I spent my time counting stars, writing letters that I never posted, sipping coffee that was already too cold. Just not the right temperature. Just never the right temperament. I spent my time walking on tiles, careful to place my awkward feet right in between, careful not to touch the boundaries. Always too careful not to touch the boundaries. I wish you had been more prudent about my obsessiveness. But you went right ahead and spilled water over the lines I had drawn. Now I don't know where my heart lies, nor my mind. I don't pay heed to your words, or mine. There's no way to make out one thing from the other; the sweet words from the poisonous; the real from illusion; the hot from the cold. I burnt my hand. But the coffee had already grown cold. The cigarette you carried around was finally put off and now the butt lies like a big black spot on my little blank life. I had begged for years, it makes me happy that you finally put it off. I envy you your shallowness dear. I have come to realize it is a terrible thing to dig deeper meaning into things that mean so little and are tossed aside by the rest.