Immaturity.

You, 

made me believe
that maybe we could achieve 

some picture-perfect peace
to relieve, release; to ease
our anxieties, undeniably
the parts of us that were diseased
our tormented entirety,
oh how it reeks, this irony
that maybe we could be free
too blind to see

there was no vacancy
no vacancy for emotions that
had no agency, amazingly
abrasively, we returned to
being strangers in the streets
like two opposing ships at sea
the beasts but not the bees
like ghosts who would not grieve,
the gifts that we received,
that day that we, conceived
this wicked web we weaved.
a melodramatic make-believe.
how prepubescent
juvenile, infantile,
without blessing,
the next best thing.
Inexpressive, undeniable
inattentive, unreliable,
wreaking havoc through
speaking words so viable.