I am your muse in the decadent glamour of a failed love,
just a sunny afternoon drinking wine on the balcony,
tragic beauty drifting under a cold winter river,
romanticized in songs I play too softly to survive.

I am a ghost in your cigarette smoke and slow confessions,
Vapour on glass that marks
hands that stayed too long
on things that were already leaving.

I loved you like sunsets on ruins:
all that splendor in abandonment
cannot be saved,
but the glow survives beautifully in decay —
faded, intimate, impossible to explain.

Time erased the damage,
kept the beauty,
and left me with the softest version of you —
unattainable, distant, golden,
like something that never hurt me,
only almost did.

Image/Pinterest.