His fingers spoke of yearning,

As he loosened himself to writing,

He breathed of wishes and hopes,

As he struggles through the next prose.


As he surrendered himself in the moment,

In the story that goes with each paragraph that he’d written,

He spoke of the love that burned from within,

And drifted away to the world they are in.


And now as I read through the scribbles he made,

I drown in sadness, melancholy and hate,

My heart persists of envy for this particular girl.

That certain lady he pertains to as Her.


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