Maybe I’m trying too
hard
To mean something
Perhaps she is already gone
And me dumping
My paltry, pathetic,
Precipitous prose
Like a deluge of desperate
Upon a dead rose
Can’t dispose of her silent
Indifferent
Existence
Each moment
Eternal
Futile
Resistance  
In listlessness I must revert
To the written,
The only way I’ve
Ever understood
Smitten
With souls,
And personas,
And psyches,
And signs
With the auras exuding
True beauty’s
Confines
But with her it is more
Than an infatuation
With mere metaphysical
Intoxication