my lost heart,
feelings lost,
as dead as grey statues,
and the art of loving forgotten,
in the empty space of the universe.

like aliens, couples pass by,
and i wonder when and where she is,
perhaps not here not now
perhaps not at all

and as the body and mind work,
what little soul left still clings,
and craddles on to the only thing left
the love for oneself,
to survive and to live and to die.