perhaps I should have studied drama
so when I see her I could go into my 
"I'm not attracted to you anymore" persona
I could inflect a genuine air of disinterest in my voice
my body language could read lackadaisical and blasé
and my eyes, trained and disciplined, 
would not wander to the gentle curve of her hips, 
the peak of skin beneath her low hanging mid-riff, 
that wondrous, nameless expanse
between shoulder, cheek, and nape, 
to the lips I've longed for,
or to her eyes, 
which, much to my dismay, reflect all that I lament 

but alas, this gifted, tortured soul
was wrapped in a poet's package
and my thoughts are written all over my face
before I commit them to paper