The scent of your lotion clung to my arm
as I took the long way home,
making me think
of when you playfully pressed yourself
against me while I sat there
in shy silence and smiled,
thinking about what to say
or if I should put my arm around you
in hopes that you’d lay your head
on my shoulder.
Nothing. Not even a “fuck you”.
Maybe I just don’t know how to be romantic
anymore.
Maybe what little fire I had left
has been snuffed.
Maybe the boy who was once overfull
with love to give
has become an almost-empty man,
desperately searching
for a few remaining drops of passion
before they too seep through the cracks
and evaporate.
Maybe you never even gave a good god damn.
The Follies of a Postmodern Xennial 