Romantic novels made me believe
that love is a bunch of poetic comparison
between a masterpiece and a person
A gentleman found on pages
would recite how his woman resembles the sun
and sometimes the night sky
Women are described by their lovers
as birds that hum
and flowers that bloom
sometimes, they are compared to the world
So now I wonder,
among everything I could be compared to
why am I left hanging
just being compared
to the lady he previously made love with.
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