I wrote you into existence with hands that trembled, shaping you from verses too tender to last. Each letter carried the weight of longing, each stanza a promise whispered between breaths. You were poetry before you were a person to me before you became a lesson I never meant to learn.
But ink stains. It seeps deep, sinking into the fibers, refusing to be erased. And when the final line was written, when the last word clung to the silence you left behind, I saw it this was not poetry. This was ruin disguised as verse.
I set the pen down. The ink had run dry.
That color I shall never use it again.