She came to think this very day,
Of thoughts sublime in every way.
She mulled and pensed to no avail,
Of me she could not follow the trail.
The poetry, the gifts all in a game?
The flowers, the compliments maybe to wane?
Possibly thinking of the end of these days,
She thought of me only in the best possible ways.
Quite possibly she thought the romance would fade,
She has seen it before when her love was unmade.
She continued to think only good thoughts of me,
For her that trail became quite clearer to see.
All too little she knew,
The gifts of my giving will never be through.
They will never reach the end of the line.
Not for the end, for she will always be mine.
Eventually, she finally concluded,
Possibly, she was not all that deluded.
Unlike any other, not one the same,
Of me she could not, would not refrain.