I’m trading messages with a ghost
Or at most,
Someone out cold in a coma.
The scent of you has long faded.
I’m left in limbo, jaded,
Still sniffing out for that sandalwood aroma
That I associate with you.
The treasured memories are wrong, and tainted,
And in their place I’ve painted
A gaudy, showy, false mural.
You might be there at the end of the line,
But you’re only killing time.
And the worst part of it all
Is making myself believe what I know to be true.