Breaking point

Sit. Feel it.

Bones on wooden chair.

And there are so many lovers in countless rooms framed in windows

(perfectly)

doing what lovers do,

making love or money.

Or both.

In the colour-struck sky I see the romance,

tasting bitterness in the cold that immobilises toes.

I used to be among the starry-eyed;

trust, security, happiness

I see in the eyes of those who no longer wish to know me,

for I was never worthy of their love.