Perfect Stranger

You’ve become my perfect little stranger.
Tiptoeing across the past, so as not to wake it.
Throwing it in the back of your mind, so as not to think it.
You’ve become my perfect little stranger.
Growing every millisecond, reaching further into the abyss my mind once held of you.
The freckles I no longer can count, the scent of your cologne I can no longer smell.
You’ve become my perfect little stranger,
For what once was something beautiful, has turned into nothing but a passing thought on its way back to the past, where you live on the cross, and die there too.