Slipping subtle supplements of her instead of you, never seem to change the way I see the morning dew

As I carried her home she talked about such glorious things like sex and drugs and those moments in life when you are too fucked up to function.
I tried to explain to her about long poems, staring at her eyes and moments in life where you fell alive, but she didn’t hear me.
She was thinking different things while she dreamed on my shoulder.
When she was passed out on the floor she couldn’t understand that for the first time in my life I was right about something.
So I sat down uncomfortably in her room, and watched her sleep soundly half naked on the floor next to her bed, and I lit a cigarette.
I don’t put it out, but let it burn down to my finger tips and leave me slightly scared, so I don’t forget the night I finally spoke of love in a form I understood it.
I drove to the gas station, thought it would have been faster to walk, mostly cause walking would give me too much time to think about her waiting by her window, and besides, the headlights on the road somehow validate the lies I tell myself about the short comings of my life.
I promised myself that night that I would never let her tell me she loved me and mean it again, cause I could never tell her I love her and feel it again.