Let me tell you a story,
A psalm from the past that I sung,
This over period turned to elegy,
And took everything that I once dreamed.
I lose my love for her and then,
It is her, who is lost,
And then it is both who are lost,
And nothing is ever as perfect as I want it to be.
In a very ordinary world of existence,
A most extraordinary pain mingles with the small routines,
The loss seems huge and yet,
Nothing can be pinned down or fully explained.
I am afraid,
If I found the meaning of life again,
It would scald my hands,
Rip the skin from the nerves,
And leave me broken with a shattered heart.
I lose my love for her and then,
It is her, who is lost,
I try not to hurt and yet,
Everything I touch become a wound,
I try to mend what cannot be mended,
I try, neither foolish nor clumsy,
To rescue what cannot be rescued.
I failed,
And now she is elsewhere,
And my nights feel insecure,
I pray saving the smiles left on others,
Try to make them feel alive,
But its mine, the lips that are utterly drained.
How easy it would be,
If love could be brought back to me,
As in like, a hand wrapped with hugs,
Or just rained down on me,
Like the drizzles of the shower,
Or gathered in like nectar,
How lovely it would be,
But nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to be.
@manauwer