The dolorous shroud again fell on me
after I thought I’d escaped its dark shade.
And, again, it was dropped by a jeune fille,
this time not because of trouble I made.
Well, just a tad, because my love’s so big,
but love’s only a construct made for rhyme.
I figured this out as I tried to dig
up the right word that sounds like rhyme this time.
Losing your love, whether rhyming or not
gutted me like a dull knife in my chest.
And the blood ran from my heart, cold not hot,
so maybe this shroud’s all for the best.
Perhaps you’ll love this poet when he’s dead,
but if I’m just blue, forget what I said.
Yeah, Valentine’s Day always brings out the loser in me. And I’ve always been a better poet of Loss more than Love.