There might have been love.
Silent, hidden, uncommunicated.
When I searched your face,
I found disapproval and disdain.
Shyly I brought you such treasures as I could find:
Brilliantly-hued leaves, pearlescent shells, and velvety feathers.
But they did not suffice your attention,
Swept aside in heedless abandonment.
Shamed by this, I tried anew with wondrous stories,
Carefully crafted to hold your presence.
Even if just for a minute.
These too passed unnoticed and unheard.
Despairing, I had little left to offer.
In grief I gave the last remaining gift:
My life poured out, so to remove my offending presence.
Perhaps you felt a brief fleeting warmth
As you burned me to the ground.
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