Pity

His charm encompasses and affects like emotions.
His face is as feline as mystery’s.
His body is as intricate and refined as an athlete’s.
His mind is beautiful, colourful, and infinite as the solar system to which he invariably carries me.
But, he does not love me—only my vulnerability.
He says, he “feels sorry for me… he deeply pities me”
He also says, “He loves the world he lives in and wants to help everybody.”
He says, “He wants to be with me sexually—show me how much he can love me physically.”
And, he says, he can’t commit right now as his life is much too busy.
One day he called and we spoke for hours, of Jesus, and physics, sexual proclivities, movies, and life’s atrocities.
The following day, or any other after, he did not call.
I felt the extent of his love… then slowly I began to pity me.
He seemed to be aware of himself, his world, his desires, and pleasures.
Yet, he does not seem to be aware that I am cognizant of the who that I am and I proudly own the self-deprecating, loveless, lonely, effeminate man; that is me.
My hate is nurtured, fed, loved, and carried without complaint,
He is also unaware that he is just like me; bitter, self-loathing, lonely, and desperate for company.
He lugs himself waywardly, seeking to drain any possible vulnerability that goes by his way.
He presents all of his cunning, misguided, and uninterested perspicacity with his beauty with the intent to destroy anyone physically and emotionally.
He is not aware that he will never know the state of being happy, even though he chases it perpetually—yet, he pities me.
Because, he lives in the deep, jaded, recess of his aberrant mind, he thinks he can possibly,—no certain, he can love sincerely.
Is it not funny to have insight into the world of insensibility?