Your love was a cameo;

a supporting character to my storyline.

Transient, in every role

just like an inexpensive wine.

No plot twists or cannonballs,

a mere filler to buy extra time.

Yet somehow I'm missing you,

but I know that's not a crime.

Lights, camera, action

Act one: and you were already mine.

Your charm caused chain reactions,

audiences clung onto your every line.

Around the intermission,

we snuck away to unwind.

But like most of my romances,

ours was the tragic kind.

So, I take a bow and watch

as the curtains fall, this is our final act,

and, at least we had a ball,

silence as we fade to black.