Your love was so young
But the heartache is as old as time.
     Everlasting in her mind.
The photographs that littered the floor tell her story,
     The ones covered in tears.
One that I never knew existed outside of a pink castle.
   A Knight scribbled poems behind the teachers back,
    And a Princess reached for them between classes.
Could love be so violently torn through years of stretching?
A love who bore a child, such as myself?
Evidently.
This tragedy gives me little hope.
How can I love when the ones I look to for love cannot?