Anhedonia

My sleep is broken by mechanical strings,
plucked by clockwork fingers from inside the wall.
I am lulled and seduced by the robotic lullaby,
now drifting again in to an automatic slumber,
dreaming that I am waking up.

Anhedonia is with me more often every day,
now waking up with her and smiling with her and kissing her before work.
She is waiting when I return from Hell,
with a luke-warm supper of tasteless grey,
which tastes like every other meal I'll eat this week.
 
Anhedonia is stirring in her sleep,
now writhing and muttering and rolling over to show me her silken back.
She is keeping me awake all night,
with aching joints and bruising eyes,
which my friends will notice inevitably over a cold beer.

Anhedonia is crying beside me,
now clutching my hand and screaming at the walls and spitting at her own reflection!
She is kissing me hard against the door,
with tender lightening on my chafed lips,
which admittedly makes me feel soft and weak.

But Anhedonia has had me before,
and I know that soon I will tire of her taste.
Tire of her hair on my pillow and her smile in my mind,
her voice on the phone and her kisses in texts,
her fingers on my skin and her sex against my waist.

I love the idea of loving her more than I love her, in actual fact.
Because she can't make me happy,
not even with this new face,
or this new voice or the larger cup size.

Anhedonia,
you are the one,
but not the one for me.
I love you, Anhedonia.
But I think it's time to leave.