A Fictitious Poet and His Premonition

He wrote poetry.

Between the lines he sang the words 

And we were suddenly in tune.

He wrote me poetry.

I loved them not because they're good.

Thinking it, how he sat there making what great lies yet

nonetheless was all for me, made me love the written.

He kept writing me poems.

Assumptions was my greatest decline because after all,

none of most was for me.

But still I thought with contradicting mind-setting...

He wrote poetry. (I loved that about him; I was not thrilled that I do)

He wrote me poetry. (Dear, I fear, I have sunken into your words)

He kept writing me poems.... 

Which he meant not know would one day give me such a revelation. 

He told me his goodbyes in his syllabic rhythm.

Like the pretenses of a well written novel, none of it could have been true. Lucid dreams could be the perfect excuse to what was foolishly accepted, 

It was a perfect set up for what was left of me to shred.

But still, even shreds are still pieces;

Why do I still grieve for you my harrowing fictitious poet?