The beauty In the irony
of how we grow distant when close,
How our hearts grow cold with every laugh
With every smile, the tears that roll.

The irony of a love desired
Yet denied.
Ached with passion; thirty
For a night of longing,
Ere our hearts are torn apart forever.

Maybe in the future
In our past mayest we be caught up,
To breath again from where our hearts once died.
© inksonpaper