It’s just like the story (the legend),
Of Wuthering Heights except in reverse,
Childhood loves torn apart by circumstance:
You’re the one who died leaving me to face the hurt.
Which is worse, I’m sure I already know?
To be dead but still roaming the earth:
Lost, cold and alone,
Or to be me; I sense you continually,
In every corner of my home.
Steps on the boards in the hall,
Cold breath on my sleeping face,
Brushing and tapping on the walls,
Your signature scent and energetic impression,
With me day and night and I hear your call.
It was all set against us from the start,
When we were children – we could never see the line.
We had a chance and we took it much later,
And everything should have been fine but …
You whisper: “it was this birthday eve,
All of those years ago that she was conceived,”
And I remind you, “yes, and it was this month,
All of those years ago that you did leave!”
So please don’t remind me, my first time,
Virginal lover – all the tears have run dry,
I don’t wish to ponder it, leave now,
I’ll not wallow in self-pity any longer over you and I.