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Death of Love

Like a wilting flower, the death of a heart
is a slow process, the petals falling like
leaves, until not even one remains. It is
not in my nature to be verbose about my
feelings, but to stand aside in silence,
allowing the passions of other men to
find happiness and comfort in the
pleasures of great women, whom had
originally captured my affections with
but a single glimpse. As the rose bud
perishes into the ground from whence it
was born, my heart falls deeper into
shadow, until not even I can determine
if such a muscle, was really ever there at
all. The emptiness brought about by the
absence of romanticism’s roots, travels
through me like the deathly frozen
hands of a specter, my body becoming
a husk of its former self. The lack of a
woman’s breath upon my lips, her hair
tangled on my cheek, her fingers
wrapped around my own, causes me to
sourly forget what should never be.
Love becomes too difficult to even
comprehend, and as the dawn arises
anew, I must prepare myself with the
uttering of a mantra, in order to
understand that love shall never be
mine. Happiness forgets me, and in its
absence, only sadness remains, and as
I pull a coat tighter around my chest
after having the warmth of the world
forget me too, I must inherently
acknowledge,  that from this day
forth, my choices have inevitably
forbidden any potential owner of the
skeletal remains that make up my heart,
from ever noticing me forevermore.