Dead Love
His
love to
me is dead.
I scoff at it,
for it was nothing.
Had it any value,
I might place it as if it
were a trinket inside my chest
of treasures. Many came before him.
Others will trail behind his empty steps.
Those footsteps – like a ghost’s – have all vanished.
How can a ghost even have footsteps?
As I think more about him now,
I swallow a big guffaw.
He is not even worth
a tiny chuckle,
so how can I
even mock
my dead
love.
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