I wanted to muse a bit of affection.
That terrible destruction yet simply, perfection.

You see, the word 'love' is a deceitful being
For the ones, at least, who live it alone
To the ones, for sure, who'd die to be done
With the pain of what the other is still not seeing.

Life... is short and people are many
So it'd seem that for some there might not be any
Being who'd match in both body and soul
And who'd want to end paths you've treaded alone.

I wanted to muse a bit of affection
But was left with the pain of her distant defection.