In the quagmire of our shared silences, love faltered, like a cat on a hot tin roof:
My heart ached much like a potato, tempted for a deep fry, awkwardly resembling a golden heart, tender but misshapen. From dusk till dawn, I would assemble bouquets of yearning, only to find daisies interspersed with dusty old socks.
I asked for your heart, yet all I grasped was an expired coupon. With a flourish worthy of Shakespeare's most befuddled character, I proclaimed my love crafted from unfurling umbrellas, keen to shield the downpour of your indifference.
Even your rejection had a cadence: echoed in the space of hallways drenched in absence. It is not that I loved too deeply, but rather, I danced too exuberantly upon the precipice—a circus on the edge—tipping with distractions.
Romantic Tip of the Day:
Always bring a backup of ketchup for your heart, for when love mimics a leaky bottle.
Each time you walked past me, the flowers wilted, and I was reminded that passion, much like a poorly scripted sitcom, flopped before the studio audience.
Yet still, I reminisce: My passion for you twinkled like starlight in a forgotten dream, luminous yet out of reach. Perhaps one day, those depths shall be unveiled anew.