True Stories

What is one supposed to do?
Silence is golden, answers remain hidden inside you

I've become a memory, so useless anyway
Eloquent, yet hollow with no words to say

Longing the instance, but you're not there
Tomorrow, yesterdays are all we'll really share

The beating muscle, only now - as motionless as stone
Lost is any soul, if - in search for home

Lonely decaying in, what once was, comfort in form of this bed
At last, hope kept fighting to face it's dead

Your embrace occasionally I still feel
Yet the past today feels far from real

Reminiscing in stagnation - what do I care
Knowing, moving on results in my very nightmare

One thing remains, like all the best stories truly sad
For I will never have you like I had