Another take at poetry.

I can’t deny that I secretly wished that she would call that night, as I longed to at least hear her voice as faint as it maybe.

The all too familiar sight of her became as foreign as my eyes could see in which she lays untouched in my memories.

Far as the years are stretched, I wished and hope this had not become such; too many years passing by all together, all that still live vividly in my imagination.

Have things really gone cold and frail? Like a thousand roses on the tip of the Himalayas; dead, frozen and lifeless perhaps.

I wouldn’t mind a little warm to keep me through the ever cold nights, to keep alight the flame as the wick burns closer to the end.

Is there such that there is no end searching for the other her? Maybe there is none to be another.

As truly for years you’ve gone and all that is left is that little bit of her living in me.