The last time I saw her.

The last time I saw her she was cold,
Her skin drained and grey.

All of her seemed old,
And turned hard in some way.

As if her blood were cement.

That once-soft mouth was firmly set,
All life in the eyes somewhere else sent.

Those empty dry eyes mine met,
Stared tearless and fearless,
As if knowing I had loved her much too late.

She then couldn't have loved me less,
This one once so intimate,
Had become so much a stranger.
It wasn't hate,
It wasn't anger,
It was simply fate.