I woke up this morning, and realised,
the romance in me had died, sometime in the night.
It was a peaceful demise,
Like a death from starvation, disease, old age,
Just wasting away behind the scenes, without a fight.

I am no longer the ashes on my pillow,
Just memories moving through a murky past,
The sinews of my being move me to look away from the remains,
Afraid to know if it was an end he deserved,
But I think he would have liked that.

I move on with my being,
Taking pleasure from what is here and now,
A cold drop of water pleases more my shoulder,
Than the scribblings of a mind, fevered,
With visions beyond mankind,
With sweat on his brow.

The bed lies empty as I come back,
The room frozen in a wanton sigh,
I clasp the folds of the blanket, afraid,
Of a shroud debased by my existence,
To lay down my head, and cry.