This wasn’t supposed to be a romance,
not the tale told so well by few
and so poorly by many.
After all, you were my knight
in rusted armor,
the intellectual who stayed too long
in the rain
and forgot to go to war.
Isn’t that you?
Perhaps you’re someone else now,
at home in someone else’s mind.
Perhaps, now, your armor gleams
its whitest brightness, gallant and true.
I’ve been so determined to forget
that rusty warrior,
to find something polished, new,
but each new knight is cruder than before
until I find no knight at all,
just a metal shell, wasted away.
I’m beginning to wonder if, indeed to fear that
I am the one who makes them that way.

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