The ghost of you is not a comfort, but a shadow darkening what light is left of my days.
It is more repulsing than tiresome to hear the poetry of misers go on and on about love. Love is born out of selfless actions, in the origins of something you know nothing of. People that boast of their supposed affections make my ears bleed. Those that show it need not declare it, empty words of which your actions have faithfully raked the opposite. I detest you. Worse than a charlatan, your sincerity marks true. You are a miser, the worst of them yet... the sole comedy found in the ridiculousness of your words.
I hope you remain alive a bit longer to unblind yourself from your hypocrisies. Yet knowing you, you will cling to empty poetry because only cowards are known for memorizing text and building stories out of nothing, there has been no action yet to support your pathetic lies. Love? You know nothing of any such thing. Look at your actions, not your words.
That is what you will be remembered for when your death comes to claim.