Aftertaste

The search for intimacy started with you. I tried to believe that what your eyes reflected back at me was something good.  Something worth  all the attention  you put in.  You convinced me that the way i feel about myself is the only time anybody hated me. For a while,  you made it seem like everything would work out. But then I started to think. And I started to doubt. And everything fell back into place. I realized that  none of it was real. Frankenstein never had any love for his monster, and neither could you. Real people aren't supposed to love something so tormented. 

How is it that i can want something so bad, want it with every bone in my tired body, and yet my hands won't reach out to take it?  The need for any sort of resemblance of comfort slips past my clingy arms, and i feel hopelessness bubble in my chest. Uncertainty has become the bed companion in a space that feels so utterly alone. Am i meant  to feel empty the rest of my life? Or will i have a stroke of luck that will allow me to have something for once.