The Fault was Ours

My love
Is not love
So much as a
Sickened sense of apathy
Here then gone
Then here again
But never quite the same.
My lust
Is not lust
So much as a
Cool thing, hot off the fire
Tempered by disgust
A twisted brick of metal,
Oh how the gorge rises.
My end
Is not an end
So much as a
Way of passing time
One body to the next
In a rictus of mortal frailty
And deepest distrust:

A thousand locks
Locked away
Then woven in a noose
They say
Which provides
Both shackle
And key
At either end,
Eternity.