The Song of the Lost by Neil Gaiman
I’ll take the touch of his lips, she said.
I’ll take the touch of his hair.
But all she has is a photograph of an unsuspecting stare;
So she pins it up by the lampposts
And she tells herself he’s lost;
For this is the price of destruction;
— This is the hell of the cost.
We cannot forget our loved ones
We do not forget our friends
Till time itself be over and every friendship ends.
I will always hold on to hope, she says,
And never give in to despair.
But she misses the touch of his lips, his smile,
She misses the smell of his hair.