It is quite ironic,
You gave me
this gift for words,
this talent
to write.
And with it,
I spun incredible tapestries
of my love for you.
I wove illustrious depictions
of your sage-brown eyes,
your freckles,
much like the constellations
that line the heavens,
and your laugh
which brought me
to sapphire oceans
as it mimicked
the sound
of the crashing waves.
But it mattered not.
I trumpeted your graces
from every mountaintop
but you cared not
for my song.
And slowly,
yet surely,
my serenades for you
into somber dirges.
My words
are brimming with such scorn
for you.
How quickly
a gift
can become
a curse.


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