Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of withering, of tarnishing. – Anais Nin
I longed to write a ballad, Dear,
A living tapestry,
Where two hearts blend as one
As love should choose to weave;
And so I gave my heart, a gift
For you to always prize—
You treat it like a favorite book
To read when you should please!
You skim it like a luring novel
With interest in the tale,
Accepting all the love I offer
Like letters in the mail;
And then you put me on the shelf
When I don’t fit your mood,
Or leave me lying on the floor
When you see fit to brood!
A book to revel in, at times,
A book to put away,
An instrument to sing for you
If you should want to play—
And when you have grown tired
Of love that I supply,
You walk down to the library,
And I am left to die.
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