I found her

She is dead
because of my pride.
She's committed
a spiritual suicide.
I found her
in the morning,
still in bed,
pale but awake,
her eyes red,
a listless stare,
her body - a flake,
the disheveled hair,
THE COLLECTOR in her hand,
another Miranda - an alien land.
I found her mourning the moments lost;
she looked at me aghast.
She was there, a living ghost
from our mutual past.
I'd been so cruel to leave her like that;
I'd been too proud to say I loved her.