I wrote a book, I filled them pages,
With stories you filed in love stages,
You typed them in neat sheets for me,
As I tired reading, you made draft tea,
You proofed, the creases smoothened,
Bound them, my dreams couriered.
My pages have now turned ashen,
In shame, wrinkled; wrung so wan.
I failed to acknowledge you.
I now cannot undo.