paper-thin romance

How can I write what’s too heavy on my heart,

too close to my soul?

My ace in the hole was my card up my sleeve,

too perfect to be,

or so I’ve been told.

‘Wreath’ I will call him, to hold the tongues in check,

to spare me some grief.

Blasting that hit by that group of groups, Black Crowes,

we, armed to the teeth ...

This romance was hot!

He tried to let on how bewildered he'd got,

but I was clued out.

The paper he burnt with a candle OF MINE,

(he ‘lit my candle’),

burnt on my birthday!

That burnt piece of paper still smolders inside,

alongside my heart.

A murder of crows I bid come to me now,

would that they would come! ...

to proffer a close.