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.