like fiction

You say it as
          a matter of fact,
          and I repeat it back, almost before you're finished,
voicing it
            the way it's intended-
                    as
                      sentiment, sloppy,
dripping, swift.
My utterance, a declaration.
Yours,
fatigued confession.
    I mean
   to draw you in,
but it's me
            who's kept at bay,
                                  buying/biding time, minding
                                                                mores.
I hear it how it's
                       supposed to sound -
its colors.
I write it down
like fiction,
like it's telling,
like it changes anything. but
 it changes nothing, though
  there's always enough to go
              around.
So, while your diction lacks,
                              not
                           sincerity,
your
                               composition cancels aim.
What is,
                                           is not
                                                null
but void,
so famished as I am, licking up these hints of crumbs,
                        I must face the fact of the matter at hand,
state the obvious,
    move on.