If I was to let go now
—and I think I know it as well as
you do, that I should—
will it be the same as just
letting go of something and not
waiting till something's turned into nothing,
because it's precious, it's all we ever had?
But I waited for a long time, so long
that I've forgotten the beginning,
only anticipating the ending I've
repeated in my head a thousand times before
we'd slip into the truth.
And I've waited so long that
the water's turned to stone,
our fire's left to rot to dust and we're
echoing on in time, like a broken sorry dying out.