Put her in a poem; sang her name in a song. Took her memory, then made a living off my misery. Went and wrote a goddamn Christmas number one. Every year, it reappears.
Now, I have grown to loathe these winter nights. I’m never alone. Her spirit visits, claiming a share of the royalties. I have to pay by playing. Again and again.
If you’re ever brave enough to let love in, then you’ll need the courage to finally let it go.
Unless, of course, it remains forever the same, perfectly preserved in the frozen snow.