I see her ghost
In the faces of strangers
You claim to be holding hope for me. I don't understand how you can do this, because I've lost my hope and I don't know where it is. Not all of it, I still have a little scrap left, but it's threadbare and meagre.
Like the times when you've run out of money and you're searching your pockets for loose change and all you're getting is fluff and grit. It doesn't matter how crafty you are, you're not going to spin that up into a pint of milk and a loaf of bread, and you're not going to turn my scrap of hope into something more substantial.
But you're standing there, with this bag that you've stuck a "HOPE" label onto, looking at me expectantly.
And you don't realise how risky this is.
Your hands are full of fake hope, and people like you need your hands free - to catch me when I fall.
You ask me who my perfect woman would be
And I think
"Oh! You! You would be my perfect woman"
But you have your husband
And you have your children
And you have your life
--without me--
And so I say
"I dunno, brunette probably"