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.
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