We last spoke the eleventh of may.
(Lovers never know the last kiss is the last.)
To us it was just one more day
discussing the drifting vectors of our lives,
comtemplating impending demise.
Loving you made me wish
I'd never loved before;
made me want to diminish
everything that came before you.
But "her" was not always you, my love.
That pronoun was once elsewhere directed,
and left behind the kind of memory
that leaves ghosts when killed.
It isn't fair to forget; after all,
a love is a love no matter how small
and now that you've joined the ranks
of the dearly departed,
why should your ghost take precedence?