I hesitate to show her the truth, The words I write may never reach her eyes; I am afraid of the torture after rejection.
These feelings cannot be denied, my poems will never cease to exist even if i erased those heavy thoughts I typed, burned them alive. The memories of us will float around endlessly somewhere, out of my reach.
If she sees herself in mirrors, in a monotone and meaningless way. she will not anymore; because reflections of her lie not only discernibly in images, but in others who admire her too.
We become who we love eventually, Admiration for someone else; makes us melt covering past pages of who were before.