I’d Tell You I’ve Been Where You Are, but, Even Though That’s the Truth, It Wouldn’t Make You Hurt Any Less
At her arms’ farthest length,
her hands find nothing to lay hold of,
and, where still you await her,
she no longer waits for you.
To be with you is to die in joy,
but only if fate decides it so,
and she no longer lends her hand to fate,
no longer finds you out,
simply drifts about.
She doesn’t know what she wants,
but she knows it isn’t you.
Whatever once you were to her,
you are no more.