Life:  
I knew you intimately, yet our time was fleeting.  
Fair enough, fair enough, I take my leave from all.  
In the cacophony, a haunting echo of guilt lingers;  
I can't grasp the reason, nor who merits such sorrow.  
But pin me against the wall, and I’d still feel like a fool,  
With a gaping void in my chest, I’d perish young, a foolish soul.  

I hear the melancholic tune we hum to remember you,  
Marking another year of life, wrapped in a heavy shroud of despair.  
I can faintly hear the last birthday song sung in my honour;  
I wear a mask of smiles, offering thanks in more ways than necessary,  
Anything to bring a glimmer to their bright faces. I suppose I should.  

I suppose I should bid my final farewells, as if I haven’t  
Done so every sleepless night, wishing for an end by dawn.  
Yet here I remain, trapped in a hazy recollection that isn’t mine.  
I dream of becoming a poem, only to find my conclusion,  
The final pages, the last words. Perhaps tomorrow, I’ll awaken
to nothingness.  

But is it possible that one day I might weave these thoughts into
a poem, one that captures the essence of our shared existence,
even if it leads us to face our final moments in solitude? This thought
lingers in my mind, sparking a deep curiosity within me.