You sang for me when we were in love,
Or so I believed you were capable of.
Now your song is no more than ghost,
It feeds off of me still; a reluctant host.
As you faded away it held me still,
Whirling me around til I became ill.
And now that I've moved on it protects,
It holds tight to me and all of my regrets.
Your song whispers to me on the occasion,
It bleeds into my head at night, a beautiful lesion.
Back when your mouth yielded such love
You took pieces of my heart, donning the surgeons glove.
I believed that like your song you were true,
Now I know that this parasite is what was always you.
Just a pretty song played out through a phone,
When I was desperate, sad and so alone.
Though your melody hurts like an imaginary bruise,
You are no longer my love or my muse.