You drew people so close to you, and that was what I loved. You could tear away something as if it was in your way and begin to know them deeply, not like the others. Perhaps that was why we all loved you so.

But when I tried to get even a but closer, to be as special to you as you are to me, you held those other people so close that I wasn't able to move them either way, to worm myself in.

And I know you can't control charm; I know it's simply got to be used and you can go through life attaching people to you that you don't want. (Oh, God, how I wish I had that attribute as well.)

I don't blame you in the slightest. I only blame you for kissing me on that warm night in May. I suppose it was the golden flute if champagne that did us in.

I was drowning before I knew it, whether in salt water or wine i still cannot decipher, and you strung my awe-stricken corpse over underwater graveyards while you sat above sea level on your luxurious yacht, playing with your new choice. I like to think you still retain those emotions behind your looks of love to other starvelings like me, though.

I want to warn them against your deadly elixir, but I've found you stole my voice as well as my state of mind. I wander in the barren plains you left me as a kindness, searching without reward for my belongings. I fear I will never recover them.