Your love--or your lack of it--is sending me into a spiral.
One minute you are here, alive and ardent,
The next, you are my ghost.
You are the wave that is drowning me,
The box that is suffocating me,
The sun that is blinding me.
We have danced around this for so long:
The empty souls are coming--
But we are still standing here.
Perfect.
Imperfect.
Racing inevitably towards the end.

Please don’t let me go.