The verses he once scribbled carelessly
became a type of medicine to me,
his limericks, like the sweetest perfume
that could fill the air in every room,
his gorgeous, timeless, melodious rhymes
just as flavorful as basil or thyme.
He did not know me, nor did I know him,
but I ventured to write upon a whim
a commendation for twisting my favorite hymn,
and giving it a tone so morbid and grim.
A “thanks” was then his meager reply
which caused a teardrop to leave my eye.
I began to think and gave a sigh
realizing sad and ashamed that I
did this to myself again. That poor man
knew not that my love rested in his hand;
he could only know what I had said,
not the million thoughts still in my head.
It was but my own imagined tryst–
a love between us would never exist.
Fake relationship of my own making–
I did no giving, only taking.
Now, once again, alone, I’m quaking,
trying to mend a heart that’s breaking.
Shared with Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie for their Sunday Writing Prompt of “Secret Admirer” because it fits the theme so perfectly!