The Bittersweet Poem by Guy Northam

What was love has become a surly coldness,
Perverted to a strange concern.

I cannot look you in the eye.

Our contact is erratic, a collision of accidentals
In which you seem younger each time,

I cannot look you in the eye.

We argue over the mundane, the narrowness
Of material worth, loss and possession. You discern

My weakness, an unforgiving care.

It lies hidden in hostility, a passion incidental
To our diffusion. You have a suffering like mine.

My weakness, an unforgiving care.