A growth of clouds are measuring out
blue skies across the field of lost love's graves.
Mine will not be found.
Ours has turned to ash drifting in the wild
while the rain of regret pours on us both.
I can accept it,
I was no good --
but can you?
Whatever pieces of me you think
will prove what I did untrue, to hold onto them
(fuck sake!) you are merely a fool.
For my remnants are as sharp as scissors
(and they will cut you in two.)
Sometimes I miss being the bird in your palm
but when you let me go
in that skyline I could finally grow.
A merciful plea to you, my last:
"Please, please, please let me go."