Softly, in the dusk, her shadow sings to me
A sweet lament, of irrevocable loneliness
Scraping at my skin and pounding at my chest.
Her voice is a tempest that shakes the clouds
As I dodge puddles of agony here on the ground.

Her novellas were written from the flesh of her soul
Transient nepenthes from the caustic sting of loss
That eats slowly away at my heart like moths.
And I find it much too hard to keep my eyes dry
While the remnants of her letters languish and die.

I wonder why my heart still aches for her so
When I never felt her soft skin in bed,
Yet somehow she remains inside my head.
And so I violently tremble at each small reminder,
Wishing she had never put me behind her.