A Season of Winter

You don't know me—you know craving. You don't want me—you want feeling. Reassurance in the form of a kiss, that you are not alone in this life as you were in your last. I empathize with rain for I too fall in accordance with my nature. You relate to soil in that you need the rain.  What you feel is not longing. It's an  addiction.  You don't pine—you convulse. You don't embrace—you use.  But I am not your substance, and you are not my fiend. You see, I don't owe you any gratification. You feel unhappy in this world? Get a hobby. You lack all sense of purpose? Go find it. I do not find myself obliged to put meaning to your name. Nor is it my job to make your life almost worth living. I just can't fathom such infirmity, that relevance lies within the arms of a man. If I did that—put my worth in you—I would be worth nothing. Because  you  are nothing and I will not be an accomplice to this coup you've plotted against yourself.  I know better than to think...