Theirs, Not Mine

They have destroyed the chances of it actually happening.
Every touch, promise,
Blandishment
(Because that's what it all really is, isn't it?)
Finds its provisional place within me
Where it giggles and squirms with all the
Energy of an excitable child.
Then, too soon,
It dies,
Slowly and with paroxysms of self-righteous anger.
It tries to prove its validity
But without its creator to confirm its case it has
No credibility. It was empty from the start.
Pity, boredom, curiosity, drunkenness,
Whatever created it, they only last so long
And when they disappear, it does too.
And I am left outside
Underneath a clouding sky
To wonder in the rain.