Some die in secret, painting meticulous shadows; one hand scratching the surface, the other already let go.

Some whisper goodbyes, music no other can hear; though you'll see them in the middle, it's more the edge that they are near.

Some smile from a distance, they know you can't come close; they've seen your reality, but value truth the most.

Some walk among us, who know they cannot stay for long; and it's only once they've left, that you might then hear their song.