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The Leftovers
This is to the unaccepted letters,
Crafted meticulously over days,
Only to be left unread,
By the one who it was addressed to.
This is to the bouquet of red roses,
Made with the best of blooms,
Only to be left unclaimed,
By the one who it was meant for.
This is to the box of chocolates,
Picked with so much thought,
Only to be dumped,
By the one who doesn’t appreciate sweetness.
This is to all the feelings,
Unsaid and confusing,
Only to be left wondering,
By the ones who never believed in magic.
