I write eulogies in my poetry,
All the words left unsaid, moments lost to history.
One day I’ll turn it into a song,
Something my kids will ask about, where we both belonged.
The eyes I fell in love with won’t be shared by them,
Because we died; we slipped away, like a fading gem.
We don’t exist; you do not exist to me,
Sounds pretty tragic, but that’s how it must be.
That’s what happens,
When you repeatedly break someone’s bones and do not mend them,
I deserved your tenderness, your oblivion without end.
You turned me into a poet with no rhyme,
Trying to uncover my wilderness, lost in time.
Running into fields of green-grey grass,
Hoping I don’t step on that broken glass.
I stop; I surrender,
The mirrors do not exist, and neither do you—my defender.
It’s all fictional, all very blue,
The dull blues, not the bright sky’s hue.
The kind you see on a gloomy morning,
That’s it; now I’m mourning.
The death of you, the death of me,
We and our unfinished dreams are lost at sea.
I know you’ll live a beautiful life, perhaps with someone alive,
Very unfortunate that it couldn’t be mine to thrive.
But it’s all right because you didn’t deserve my sky,
Or at least that’s what I tell myself to sleep better and sigh.
Then I wake up crying,
To the hand of you touching my grass, no denying.
You do this without my permission,
Thinking I could never make a decision.
I despise your being; you’re filthy,
I bet you feel it in your skin.
