In the quiet of the night,
He scours the digital landscape,
Seeking flesh and fire beyond our shared sheets,
While I lie there, abandoned,
A living question mark in the dark.

He says he loves me,
But his actions scream indifference,
His touch reserved for screens,
While I ache for skin-to-skin warmth.

What is love to him?
A fleeting thrill, a hollow echo?
He chooses the ephemeral over the eternal,
Leaving me tangled in a web of hurt.

And so, I ask the moon:
Why does he seek solace in strangers' touch,
When my heart lies inches away?
If love is more than words,
Then let him find another bed,
Another body,
And leave me to dream alone.