He claimed we were perfect rhymes, you see,
But he forgot, even in rhymes, there are categories.
In the sonnet of love, our lines entwined,
Yet labeled different, destinies maligned.
In the ballad of us, a melancholy refrain,
He missed the nuances, the subtlest pain.
Perfect rhymes, he said, a symphony sweet,
Yet our verses diverged, in sorrow's heartbeat.
As if in a villanelle, repeating our theme,
But the echoes of love weren't as they seemed.
Labeled apart, in the poetry of fate,
A somber truth, our love couldn't abate.
In the rhyme scheme of life, a dissonant chord,
Our love, once harmonious, now ignored.
He said we were perfect, a poetic crime,
Yet in reality, we were running out of rhyme.
