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2001 Poetry The wind blows
outside my window.
These tears I cry,
are no longer of the joy we had,
but of the pain that devours us.
Like a flame.
A flame that is no longer of love,
but of the hateful things,
we say and do.
This ring around my finger,
has no meaning to love at all.
It's fake.
Like our love,
like our friendship,
and like every soft sweet kiss.
It all meant nothing,
it was nothing,
we are nothing.
It was all over,
before it even started.
We are at an end,
this is good bye.
~*~ Jill ~*~
