Just my type

Obsessed with you, I was.

All of your non existent chat, your ghostly love and care, you oozed not giving a flying fuck.

Just my type, the emotionally detached are utterly charming.

Quiet the anxiety with sex, a transaction, an enjoyable fuck. But what was left, what did we have beyond lust, beyond a deafening sense of despair.

Nothing.

Bone dry.

Lest we forget, I thrived in the stench of my own lack of self respect.