When a bridge of love is deconstructed,
What was offered is now rendered stale bread
By bitter philosophy.
And, by that critique,
The drunken imprecision of my love is exposed
For but a mere fraction of prophecy.
I concede defeat on all fronts.
The ontology of my offer: voided by the definition of what such refusal constitutes.
Yet I am perplexed.
The offer was, after all, shaped according to the best of forms: