My Wretched Friend

I watch your complacency like one would watch a dying animal. I watch you from afar, most times, with sympathy and a vague disgust. Heart full of useless love, wasted love, I watch your eyes grow emptier, your smile turn to plastic. I told you, my wretched friend, that I don't think you're happy, and you nearly agreed, but hesitated, and tripped over yourself, memories of our drunk nights filling your head, but the forefront overtaken by the way things appear to be. So concerned with the shoulds, the musts and must nots, you never seem to see your own misery, until I appear to remind you. Collapsing into each other like stars, we only create voids and questions, the answers never appearing, at least not with clarity, nothing solid and real beneath our feet. We only dare to dream of what is possible to build in the space between us, and then turn our backs on it swiftly, remembering, as it were, that the stone you're made of is not the kind that can truly love. No, the stone you're made of is not the kind that could ever love me.