I suppose it doesn’t matter much
That you said you missed me,
That you ached for my touch,
That you couldn’t resist me.
It doesn’t matter that I turned away,
That ending it was my call,
That you, then, had naught to say
It doesn’t matter much at all.
For here we are with expectations
As we were before,
And those, unmet, lead to frustration
And we, again, seem like a chore.
For sweet desires, memories and yearning
Are not all we bring back upon our returning.