On Being Thrown Over

Would your love for me increase

were I to die

or would my barely-mourned decease

erase me from your memory?

 

Would your febrile eyes

seek out a physical response, the fuel

to weave a quilt of lies

made posthumously cruel?

 

Was I no more than ornament,

a transient nod to Spring,

the blush of one short season’s mild content

fit now for only fickle disregarding?

 

Was there nothing I could ever be

then, 

now, 

or evermore to thee?

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