Wasted Muse

In the quiet ache of reminiscence,

I trace the shadow of your brown eyes—

deep wells, warm and welcoming,

where my own reflection was never meant to linger.

Your hands, soft as rain upon the battlefield of my body,

once held my heart, an empty vessel,

and you, my muse, a fleeting spirit of love incarnate,

painted the world in lustrous hues of what could be.

We danced in the fractured light of borrowed time,

where whispers of forever tangled with regret,

and every touch was a promise that

could not withstand the storm of reality.

I search for fragments of us in abandoned realms,

where your tortured soul would lay with my own,

to breathe life into the infinite unknown, but now I tread

the crumbling pavement of a path never destined for eternity.

You are the ghost of my longing, haunting me still,

a bittersweet specter always lurking in the corners of my mind,

a memory of a love that was pure but misplaced,

and I mourn a possibility that was never ours to claim.

The cruel hand of fate was a cunning thief—

still, in the bitter hollow of your absence,

I search for you within the endless

void of what could never be.