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My heart was like an open book,
of which you openly partook.
A novel to be written by your love,
with divine inspiration from above.
An empty slate upon which to write,
Never a solitary moment too slight.
You grabbed your chisel and inked your quill,
and made your impressions, and pages did fill.
innocence to mischief, and laughs to cries,
you drifted away and severed your ties.
Youth so wasted in efforts so vein,
everyting to learn, yet nothing to gain.
Time has passed on, and wounds may have mended,
but I shall never forget our love that so ended.
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