When asked what you meant to me,
I wanted to say you were a flower
That I could not hold,
Because its thorns would’ve drained all my blood,
Or the poison in my cup that you fixed before I drank to my own demise.
But I did not.
Because we are not of tragedian nature,
And your flaws were not mark or discussed by scholars.
I was not similar to Ophelia, nor you to Hamlet,
But we watched our demise from behind the curtain, barely sustaining to the ending of our plight.
What you meant to me,
Cannot be soliloquized but merely stated;
I would have captured all of Denmark to offer you,
I would have drowned myself to save what we could have been.