There's a sense of longing in me,
As I read Rosemary's letter,
Her writing's honest,
Can't forget the years she's lost.

In isolation,
She talks about her love,
And as I read,
I'll die alone,
I know she's aching.

There's a certain detail seen here,
The pen must have slipped to the side,
And left a stain,
Next to his name,
She knows he's gone.

And isolation,
Is all that would remain,
The wound in me is pouring out,
To rest on a lover's shore.

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