I vow myself to her. I give her all my days, my hours, my minutes, my seconds. I will spend them all on her.
There is too much to say in too little time, though I will try to make it fit. I will pour my passion onto a screen that she will never see, but with limited characters, limited words, I
There is no amount of poems i could write her, no amount of art I could paint, That could somehow win over the mind of such a scholar.
The poems I write, days in advance. The sketches I color, whipped up right on the spot.They all proclaim my everlasting love for her. But she will never lay eyes upon them.
These works are all I have to medicate the bruises. Though I somehow still love her.
Though these words may seem like facts, like an umbrella on a stormy night; they are not.
They are not facts. They are promises.
And promises are easily broken.