A poem on unrequited love

He doesn’t love me, he loves me not;
my body writhes in anguish.
I claw at my flesh and tear at my hair,
my body and soul languish.

I’ve done this to myself, should’ve
known better, must be a masochist.
“Nothing serious,” he said to me,
yet I pursued this foolish tryst.

Plucking petals from this oxeye,
I already know its decision.
I know that he can’t give me all
that I cannot help but envision.

I shall lay here in my solitude
and long for his tender embrace.
Until at last my love is requited
no smile shall adorn my face.

And if that day should never arrive
I shall wither and I’ll perish.
For whether or not my love is returned
he is the one I cherish.