Tell Me Not, This Supposed Love

Tell me not with parted lips,
that you love so dearly
these delicate roses.
Force not upon bare flesh,
a cold so deep
it crystalizes
and shatters delicate buds…

Then, tell me not with parted lips,
that you've held so dearly
those
newly dewed buds…
and though I know
that,
beyond a doubt,
that these newly misted flowers
are devalued, dreary, and dead,
before
apathetic eyes…
I cannot help but enjoy
this slow pain.

So, tell me not with parted lips,
that I was precious.
For
the more I hear,
the more I desire.
And the more I desire, the more frigid I become.
Thereupon,
becoming drenched so blue
in this searing yearning,
I allow efficient passage
for your
hungry winds.

Alas, tell me not with parted lips
that you cared.
For as I stand, as these roses stand
within your tempest,
we begin to wither away.

Displacing not our sweet scent,
but of the life that we gave…

I, on the other hand, no-longer provide to
another lie, another touch,
from a bode that's already dead.
Nonetheless,
I still can smile
for this
first was the most pleasant
one I'll ever receive.