Four words that cut,

And twist a burning knife down deep inside

To make you realise something has died;

I like you but…

 

So coldly curt;

Another frog that won’t become a prince.

Out of the blue this phrase to make you wince

Until it hurts.

 

How do you cope

With feelings that were growing ever more,

Yet withered with the slamming of that door,

And death of hope.

 

Sad and forlorn,

Amidst the turmoil of a hurricane

Within your breast, that howls out at the pain

Of dreams stillborn.

 

An old chestnut;

Eternal turn of Cupid’s carousel,

Disrupted by this ever hurtful knell,

I like you but…