I wrote a tale of love so deep,
A melody that refused to sleep.
Each word was carved with aching care,
Yet silence filled the empty air.
She walked into my world one day,
Like dawn that melts the night away.
A fleeting spark, a whispered song,
A love that felt both right and wrong.
I sought to paint her in my lines,
To freeze our moments between the rhymes.
But love is not a poet’s ink—
It breathes, it breaks, it makes you sink.
She read my heart upon the page,
Paused a moment, then turned away.
"No echoes, no shadows, let me be free,
Your love is yours, but not for me."
So now I write of dreams untold,
Of stories lost, of hands left cold.
Not as a lover, not as a flame,
But as a poet, whispering her name.