waiting

You have a blockage.
It stops the flow of vital nutrients to your atrified body,
necrotic tissue slowly turning blue.

It warms, begins to gush,
and hits a wall of rancid fat,
leftovers of insincere indulgences,
of promises unkept.

The warmth meekly attempts to penetrate,
and instead pours out onto the floor in front of me,
into my waiting arms.

I cry at it's lost potential,
at it's beauty and sadness,
at my own.

And I walk home,
covered in you,
without you.