She sang her songs in
olive-green petal-spread,
And I was the
discarded notes;
Creating stories of
flower-rooted pearl tears;
voice-crack and heart-cry.

She composed red roses in
full-moon bloom,
And my tunes were made of thorns;
Unfinished love-songs of
off-pitch emotions and broken melodies.

Oh, she had the entire world before her,
But I had my life, and I had my heart.


The End

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