On Being Thrown Over
Would your love for me increase
were I to die?
Barely-mourned, would my decease
erase me from your memory?
Just when did your febrile eyes
seek solace in others, find the fuel
to weave a quilt of lies
pre-posthumously cruel?
Was I no more than ornament,
a transient nod to Spring,
the blush of one short season’s mild content
now only fit for fickle disregarding?
Was there nothing more I could ever be,
a dull fragment of your history?