His words chosen,picked with care,
too perfect a lover,you know
he sees you not his passion
but you are today in fashion,
hold my hand...let his go.
When we talk you realize,
your troubled soul and uncertain will,
they make sudden but comparisons,still,
making you shudder with the notion
we entwine around the same emotions.
His hand on your face, a brutish disgrace,
does it tingle the nerves the way I do?
and yet you are bound,
by your choice unsound,
no reason for the treason,I ask of you.
He brings you a bunch,your favourite flowers,
my single rose lurks fresh in your mind for hours,
his kisses demand more than they give,
my single peck upon thy cheek,
I held you,for it made you weak.
Come to me, like the hunger built
inside you now overcoming guilt,
throw off his yoke and wear my ring,
distances and obstacles that existed,
broken now amidst a Love unresisted.
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