No one will ever love you the way you love them,  
Nor cherish you the way you cherish them.  
We dream, we hope, we ache to find,  
A love that mirrors heart and mind.  

But no—this world is cruel and bare,  
The givers give, yet none will share.  
We pour our souls, we spill our light,  
Into the void of endless night.  

We give, we burn, we tear apart,  
Fueling fires from a hollow heart.  
Hoping one day, perhaps, we'll earn,  
A love as pure as what we yearn.  

But no—our giving goes unseen,  
Our brightest flames turn cold, serene.  
Behind four walls, in shadowed grace,  
We crumble in a quiet place.  

The angels hear our silent cries,  
As pieces of our spirit dies.  
Still, we cling to fragile dreams,  
Of love as vivid as it seems.  

Movies paint a fleeting glow,  
Of tender hearts that heal and grow.  
But we, the givers, bear the cost,  
Forever giving, forever lost.  

They take our light, our endless joy,  
Until there's nothing left to destroy.  
Then leave us hollow, dim, and bare,  
To mend alone in our despair.  

Yet still, we rise, though beaten down,  
To wear again love's fragile crown.  
And once more, the cycle turns,  
Our hearts ignite, our spirit burns.  

But love, for us, is a curse, a blight,  
A beacon fading into night.  
Behind these walls, we break, we mend,  
A story cursed to never end.