What you can survive, of what you die,
how come there is no line between them?
Some die insane of a broken heart
and others live on, through all of it.
Always a story has to be told
and the story belt grows on but still,
never we know how some can survive
and others die of a broken heart.
I think a while you were the ghost
who lived with me and my two cats,
the grey one scared of you the most
and one indifferent to the world.
The room you’d painted blue before
had been a place for both of us,
‘t was where we found our ways and more
through paths inside the other’s mind.
And here it was where we made love
as if our love was still alive,
as if you could still find enough
in sharing it with cats and me.
I aired the room, your ghost won’t leave
but lingers in the curtain’s folds
reminding me how hard I grieve,
and what’s the use, as time goes on.