I was the human and you were my desire,
I couldn't get enough of you; my love for you could never retire.
I was your paper, you painted me in your colours that left a permanent affect,
There was nothing that could fill your void in my life and that was my defect.
It's my incapability, my unwillingness to get over you,
Because your mark is everlasting  even though your words were few.
You wrote me in your pages which   you soon threw  out,
As if I was your draft; but you are my writer and too precious for me to forget about.
~*~
✍