The wilting hours now begin to yawn
between our parting looks 
You’ll soon pose me in some gallery
or print me in your books
Strewn across the coffee tables
of all your literary friends
They gleefully rifle through the wreckage
as our love surely ends

It’s a responsibility you won’t accept
but there’s a cruelty inherent
owned by the one who wields a pen
the one who is the poet
I marv...

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