It was true that I once loved you.
A very naive love, unconscious and immature.
You. Queen of hearts, the desired one.
Forgive me if I loved you like an object, but an object is how I felt like.

Your fiery words pleased my passive attitude.
I did and I will do everything to follow love.
Not like past times.
Nevermore.

Now you are a dried rose.
A poem with no author.
A love without a reason.

You have never been a main character in this theatre.
It's only about me.