Frost.

As ever, the choler, shall be effaced,
and you will drop those little hints;
of how much you need to hold my hand,
while I make do, with your fingerprints.

As usual, you would change the topic,
hoping the previous would not arise;
and wishing you could wash my face,
while I take joy in your swollen eyes.

As always, because it's always been,
your way of crumbling these echoing sands;
you'd want to comfort my receding hair,
while I amuse myself, with your left over strands.

As it is, I killed it, before you ever spoke, about
literature, language, and your other friends;
and now you simply choose to ignore
while I sit here, yearning to make amends.