The relationship-chain is perpetual pain.

The scythe swings again—but can’t duck.

What faired in the yester is today’s compost—

Daisies ought not to die for such luck.

‘She loves me’, ‘she loves me’, ‘she loves me…’

You see, I pulled every other petal.

But her words cut like a knife cause I was ‘not’-ed,
And my heart has been skewered with her metal.

Seems I’ve wasted my whole life on romance,

deigning for tenderness, thirsting for kisses.

Yet morrow the reaper will visit or

The trickster, perhaps, will come first.

And I’ll be one no one misses:

Love-sucked by death’s thirst.