He sits in the silence, his heart ached and torn,
Beside a grave, in the chill of the morn.
Smoke drifts like whispers, lost in the night,
A bottle in hand, seeking fleeting delight.

Unseen behind him, a figure in black,
Her bones gently rattle, no way to turn back.
A bouquet of sorrow clutched tight in her hand,
She watches him grieve, unable to stand.

What could have been, she mourns in despair,
A love left unfinished, now lost in the air.
But in this dark hour, they both are alone,
One in the grave, one made of stone.