She lives in my house,
As if it wasn’t my house,
And it became her dearest house.
She occupies my favorite side of bed,
And reads the book I haven’t yet read,
However, I like what I lose,
And the odor of what I feel,
When into my mirror she stares,
And wears the towel I use,
Or walks in the room without a skirt,
wearing my only white silk shirt,
And tells me about her nightmares;
When she persuades me to listen
And believe her voyage to heaven,
Which was so many and many years ago,
In agony, the truth I surly know,
but her presence can’t be unreal,
So happy with the soul of the dead,
Illuminating life in the solitary house.