I have lost myself.
All of my pages —
ones that were once filled with
poetry to describe you —
have somehow been smudged
black with the mistakes of spilt ink.
That's the thing;
I have spilled perfectly good ink
on perfectly imperfect pages.
I have fumbled and fallen
where I should have stood firm.
I have mangled and fractured
where I should have been delicate.
Your pages deserved better;
to be written upon with love
so fervently and with such graceful strokes
that you became a monument of passion.
I feel...