Like a flower that grew in the middle of the desert,
alone and powerless, me.
My hands are always cold,
missing yours, cold too.
A bed uncompleted, a warm body left
every cell of me is now frozen.
I miss you everyday my love,
my soul is turning dark,
dreams becoming dust, the heart is a ghost.
Little things unsaid,
twisted thoughts of a broken mind,
lay now every moonlight where I rest my head.
Still cold, nowhere to be seen
this old dark machine.
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