Your lips on mine were warm and loving.
You always said I had soft lips.
Your hand holding mine was warm and reassuring.
You always said my hands were oh so small.
Your eyes looking into mine were warm and deep.
You always said my eyes were the prettiest.
Your finger tips against my skin were warm and timid.
You always said I was very forward.
Your head on my shoulder was warm and comforting.
You always said it was cute when I fell asleep on you.
I thought the constant was your warmth,
physical, emotional.
But it was really the facade of warm.
The facade covering your heart of solid ice.
Your lackluster, surface level statements that I took as heartwarming.
All calculated and cold.
I’m no longer warm with love;
I am warm with rage.
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Oh, I love the way that you redirected the use of “warmth” at the end. The buildup was just great, and the shift from the surface-level complements to the truth tucked below worked out really well.