I could, I know.

I could learn to hate the memory of you –
For, if this where you planned to leave me –
You shouldn’t have made promises to be true –
You should have let my lonely heart be.

Loneliness hurts, I know, but it doesn’t infect
The future’s hope in good dreams of time.
Now all you’ve left me are tears that reflect
Seeping sores living through contrived rhyme.

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