I wrote a love letter once,
Language coated in honey,
And red wine,
Words to be crafted into a paper plane,
And sent soaring to her heart,
Baring my soul,
Each word a passionate kiss,
Every line a bite of the lip,
A love story in graphite,
Soon to be an obituary,
Doubt clouts me from behind,
A lesion shaped like a broken heart,
The page laughs at me,
Mocking my naivete,
The eraser calls,
I excise them in a flurry,
Each syllable becoming a dismal mess,
The words become a distant regret,
Merely a trace of a love,
Retired to a waste bin of reluctance,
The feelings are now simply eraser debris,
And are brushed aside.
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