It wasn't just the heart, even dreams were toyed.
I was a specter of affection, once vivid, now destroyed.
I was the breeze that caressed your skin,
A passing wind, caring and gentle.
But winds must roam, and so you declared,
I was only a season; rejected and impaired.
A season I was, in the chronicle of your years,
So sure of "our love" to share it with your peers.
Sunday, I danced for love amongst the stars,
Tuesday, you found it suddenly all so bizarre,
How clueless for what was to come,
The "Real You" that I was yet to learn,
How joyous I was, how unfazed,
When Wednesday came, you left me without a trace.
I came as salvation, a beacon in your night,
With open arms and a heart willing to make it all right.
Your sorrows, your tears, on my shoulder they lay,
From thunders and storms I will protect you, I prayed.
Now solitary and silent, here I stand.
For a sin you committed, never carved by my hand.
You left me in the ruins of my own generosity,
Abandoning every spirit of faith and loyalty.
Was my presence so light, so easily dismissed?
Or was the weight of my love too heavy to hold?
For you dropped it like burden, an unwanted gift,
And left me to shiver in the cold.
You were the sculptor, and I, mere clay,
Molded with care, then shattered with ease.
I was the canvas, once vibrant and true,
Now a faded memory, like you never drew.
I gave you my all, the essence of me,
But was I ever more than a shadow to thee?
The saddest truth in this tale of demise,
Is every dream I weaved proved me unwise.
For you erased me without a thought,
This memoir on love will now forever haunt.
The saddest poem is my unwritten verse,
Reminding me again of fate's unjust curse.
Like dust, I danced in your sunbeams,
Gleefully whirling the currents of dreams
But with the slightest of gestures, your dismissive sigh,
As you poofed me away swiftly, saying goodbye.
Written by Vrushali Deshpande
