We are over.

We are over.

I chased a love never to be mine,

ignoring warnings,

thinking it was fine.

Oh, too late,

I realized what I had done—

my life changed;

there was no fun.

Roses bowed their heads,

sharp thorns—

everything was torn.

The perfect man,

the perfect love,

once a tailored glove.

Now it’s rotted;

my heart is dead meat

from your feast.

Our love is deceased.

No more perfection,

love, or hope.

The end of our story,

the end of us two.

They say it’s better

to have loved and lost—

that isn’t true.

There should never

have been a beginning—

no me, no you.

So the broken, stale hearts

I toss to the wolves

All ready to feast;

red hearts broken,

our love truly deceased.