Rope Harvester

Hanging from the ceiling,
This rope now her harvester,
As Dreams drip from her fingertips,
Streaming out of open wrists,
Memories run down your cheek,
Dissolving into mist.
Her mouth ajar,
As if to say,
The night you died was my demise,
I had no place,
No thought in mind,
Just a space to linger.
Now these eyes, they give white stares,
A tilted head, gives nightmares,
A passion burnt with no flame,
Kept me at your open grave.