End of the line


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.


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