There’s sadness in the curtain’s final scene;
That cup has quenched your candle in the wind.
There’s catatonic rest in “might have been”
And in your vacant room, a vacuumed din.
You saw it in your lover’s troubled eyes
the evil gripping him a bit quite mad:
your blame now past as withered are his cries;
not forced to say again, “my bad; my bad!
Sometimes we choose to linger in the pain
than let it go and snuff out all our tears;
Sometimes we choose to let the pain remain
than struggle with the unknown and our fears.
When love and sense, together, are not strong
Is better to let go than string along.