On the edge of the precipice I linger,
plucking away at the petals of memories.
Buds I believed would bloom,
blossoms I never received.
Why do you stand here, you may ask.
Surely you must know that there are others.
A kind word akin to sonnet, doting.
These are the tools of your trade.
Why choose, you entreat, to be alone?
Because I desire misery and disdain.
You're wonderful, don't you realize?
No, but who are you to tell me this?
Know that I am alone because I require
something more than wilting petals.
Understand that I love those who
should never think to love me.
So here I stand, desolate and forsaken-
the edge of love's precipice once again.
These fading petals fall into love,
a plummet I don't yet deserve.