I can whistle all I want, but you’ll never be here again like you said in my dreams.

     "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
     Now that you’re gone, who can I trust.”

There are still pieces of my inner poet hanging on, but most of them died with you.

     "Has the dawn drawn any nearer? You’ve been too many days without the sun.
     A stranger stands in your mirror,  falsely content with all he’s become.”

I always thought that if one of us were to actually go through with it, it would be me.

     “Tainted blood like a river flows, a steaming pool of red bordeaux."

But it was you. And truthfully, it’s always been you.