Another lovelorn rambling

To love is to kill yourself
with every passing second,
of every passing minute,
of every passing hour,
of every passing day,
of every passing month,
of every passing year,
and years keep rolling on by,
and what is left?
You ask yourself;
a hollow heart
that beats on and on
in hope, in search
of dreams that were never...
... never meant to be fulfilled,
never meant to be actualised,
never meant to take shape,
to fill out the emptiness,
the hollowness that makes life bleak,
to wipe the tears,
that were too shy, too weak,
to reach out to the emotions,
that kept waiting in hope,
that someday, maybe,
what if, who knows?
That the love that had been
killing me bit by bit
might afterall be
embalmed and picked
into arms so sweet
that thereafter,
it would never ever,
be similarly measured,
or give half as much pleasure,
give the body to my dreams,
be the support to my hopes,
be my heart's second part
and yet be one,
a single heart, your's and mine,
beating together in bliss,
untouched for time sublime,
in it's own unscarred beautiful rhyme!