The sweetness of her scent remains
And holds him captive now.
It binds him as with heavy chains
As venom courses through his veins,
And he declares a solemn vow:
To pain, he will not bow.
And yet he sits throughout the night
While writing with a pen.
It glides along the page to write
The words he failed to bring to light
When she began to cry and vent:
“I'll not be back again.”
He now discerns she won't return,
Despite his earnest plea.
He knows his love she'll quickly spurn,
Yet still he hopes she'll overturn
The choice she made that day to flee,
Proclaiming she was free.
As morning nears, he stands and sighs
And breathes her lovely scent.
He rubs his red and weary eyes
And glances at the piles of lies,
The ones he wrote in his lament,
And which will not be sent.
The pen is dry; it will not write—
Its ink completely gone.
The letters that he penned tonight
Now rest beside a candle's light.
The words they hold, she won't look on,
For they have died at dawn.