I must do something about you.

A mournful violin, playing minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, pulling at emotions I thought evaporated with age. Hot-blooded spirits interred within an ice-covered heart have been resuscitated. Slowly, slowly, you cleared away that frost and slush, and allowed lust inside me to take flight again.

But you don’t know that you have done it.

You are young, untidy, hopeless with money, pay too much attention to a cat, and do not like salad. You talk about sex all the time. Every excruciating detail of what you did with whom and when.

You are depressed and miserable. And through the hours of darkness, we sit and talk, and I hear you crying for an existence. A world which considers you better.

And I love you with every single breath. Your touch, your scent. They make me tremble, and send me into silent misery, because I know this feeling isn’t reciprocal.