I can see it in her eyes
that she's lost the battle
between her gentle heart
and her treacherous brain—
a battle in which there is no winner,
only a weary survivor,
war torn and broken down,
beaten until she couldn't take it anymore
I reach out to touch her,
but it's as if I'm a ghost—
her eyes are glazed and wet
as she looks right through me
I wish I had known
that she was going to be this cold
so I could bring extra blankets
or matches to light a fire inside myself
that could melt her icy aura
but sadly as it seems,
the chemicals that used to make her love
don't seem to be working anymore
