I desire far more excitement than I am living. I want to feel fire when your skin is against mine, for now all I feel is nothing. All I have is my apathy, rather than the butterflies that used to flitter around my stomach. Never have I felt butterflies with you. It is merely the mundane task of getting you off, occassionaly but rarely getting myself off as well, and then laying next to you and making the same conversation I make with every person that happens to walk past me. You don’t want to be with me, you never wanted to be with me. I’m comfortable arms to cry in and a warm body to have on top of yours for the blistering cold nights of loneliness. I feel like I’ve let myself down. I am selling myself for a love that is never to be, I am giving myself freely and receiving nothing in return. I suppose it’s just that I don’t want to be alone, or maybe just that it’s nice when I’m given the chance to be able to pretend you’re still around. Mutualism at it’s best, but also parasitism slowly tearing me apart.