I read your cues like a long-dead language
etched onto baked clay, carved
into stone. Your life is not my life,
your custom not my custom, your food
nothing I would eat, even starving,
for I did not butcher it myself.
This is why your love is dark to me,
incomprehensible, sewn in a black sack
I cannot even heft to guess its weight.
This is why I am now cool, now strange,
why I answer you in the harsh runes
of my own alien tongue. This is why
nothing ever works. This is why I’m done.