Figure 8.

Eight years gone, still strung along

Trapped in misery

Where are you baffles me;

Eight is it the number of your passing

Now still you are but a wandering;

In what world do you reside now?

Is it as glorious as how they made it sound?

I try my best to not make a sound

As I cry thinking of you now.

Your skin, how has it turned

Your scent haunts,

Your face, ah! that face,

Is it the one staring at me now;


Hazy memories trapped in infinity

Your the figure eight that shall be me.

Eight years have passed 

Yet, your love out lasts

For I am my mother’s daughter

And even death is nothing

For you are my maker,

And in that beautiful dream

There you will be with me.


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