It’s not that I can’t love you anymore,
it’s that I don’t want to.
The days trickled into years,
unravelling the tapestry of our limbs
Casual snippets snipping
— snapping —
the last threads of us.
The future looms, as it does, as it always will.
Your tender eyes were a dropped stitch
weaving tales of fantasy and love.
I guess you wanted a Princess,
or some form of Juliet
to lie prone in your arms
but my warrior heart blanketed yours
and you learnt that
not all Beauty is created fragile
and I learned that
not all monsters are men.
Some are sweet little boys
with charming smiles, eager
to ride off on white stallions.