The Last Adieu
Being with you means happiness. Was.
It was a breathtaking voyage, the treasured, cherished remembrance.
In anticipation of the very last adieu, I have suffered defenseless.
Really, a definition of melancholy was unbearable.
Every so often, I'm letting my imagination run riot.
Make them floating in the air, running after for the shadow of yours.
Again, I deteriorate with loathing and revulsion of my foolishness.
Why do I have to mortify myself? Why can I let you depart?
The lingering misery over the lost love has finally become outrageous.
Sleeping was no longer consoling and waking up was a supreme gloominess.
The universe has becoming a dim place, chock-full with repeated blankness.
The sun was losing the warmness and the moon was losing the exquisiteness.
The world had always been a more comfortable place for me.
Now it's a heartbreaking verve with never ending despair.
If I were able to touch him, I would love to do that; for the very last time.
Then I would not take hold of him any longer.