His love for me was like a paper rose.

An imitation of beauty,

Forever captured in a medium.

It cannot age or decay or die,

But it was cold,

It was dead,

And yet it never quite lived.

His feeling was an imitation

Of the real beauty.

In passion and love and foreverness.

Fondness would never substitute love.

A paper rose will never,

Be real or delicate or as cared for.

His love for me,

Can never be real.

It was only a beautiful facade.

A very beautiful facade.