For countless days, they had loved me as a shadow.
Seeking pleasure ignored my skin and bones.
But truly they never found the seed that grows.

For years, I've been living in men's juvenile illusions.
Fabricated by floral dresses they had always fancy,
sunshine, and contagious laughs.
But they haven't tried to read between the lines.

They kept me as their own good luck charm,
but never as a frantic soul.
Stitched by scars and ghosts,
hadn't seen me drowning from old anchors.

When the time had come,
they chose to let it bygone.

So love,
Before you try to confess,
be sure of something:
It is but a shadow and a thought that you love