The end of ‘US’ ought to be observed as a death,
A wake, a funeral, a time to weep, be dressed for mourning,
There should be time to think about the loss of love,
There should be words said about the heaven once had,
There should be songs sung to pay homage to the beauty past,
The end of ‘Us’ sure feels like a death
I’m staring at the corpse; the rotting, bloated remains,
The mangled words are all that remain, and this incredible
loss,
Staring up at the sky; it is mute now, gone - leaving just a
void,
Rubbing a corpse’s cold, rigid, fingers won’t bring it back
to life,
The end of ‘US’ is a death of me and a death of you,
All the parts of us that’ll never again shine through,
Already now, the disease and suffering forgotten,
Remembrance aided by sandalwood scents from places of
worship,
Battered blue cloth, preserved stains on pillows,
handwriting between book pages,
Apparitions of ‘us’ is all that’s left,
How we were, enmeshed into one – one life
How we were, enmeshed into one – one life
