Playwright (a poem)

....

The plays you wrote,
were our memories store.
The ink flowed into thin dead wood,
and the feather became my poor heart's intruded.
Emotions filled booklets,
words now that strike like bullets.
You said it was just a theatre play,
with lines all utopian but cliche.
The acts kept running,
thy brown orbs kept shinning,
The unknown attraction between us kept getting cunning.
You became my Taylor Swift melodies.
I became thy play's main parodies.
You were my Romeo,
I was thy Juliet,
our story was meant to end as a tragedy,
just like the play.