What am I holding onto?
A ghost, a shade; a person who,
If she ever existed as I loved her in the first place,
Is certainly gone now.
You are slipping through my fingers like funeral soil,
And I am not ready to believe that there is simply nothing more I can do but cry and heal.
I am not ready to believe it,
But somewhere underneath I do know it.
I have known it for much longer than I will ever truly admit to myself.
For a long time, I think,
I have been crooning love poems to the vacant air,
And heaven only knows when I will have the strength
To stop.