She looked older than the years she had born in there
that which caused her to own that odd grey hair
covering her countenance that was once pretty fair
now, out of nowhere, a portrait of despair.

She resorts to lock her sight on black and dried up roses
holding her book of poems that only burnt her wishes
to create a song that made her miss his soft caress
a sober spring tune from a grief-stricken mistress.

Been there from the place where they had first met
when she cries, she remembers what not to regret
hard knock of nostalgia, no one can seem to interpret
caustic flashbacks she can never eschew nor forget.

She knew she'll have to recover before the pain rages on
Again, as this tormenting struggle then continues to go on
No one can tell her how she can finally be able to move on
But memories of the truest love shall always stay and live on.