No matter what you do
the song I sing for you
remains the same, partially
out of habit, partially
out of spite, but mostly
out of relevance, because
it’s not just the song that
remains the same but you,
encased in amber,
allowing life to entomb and
transform you into an artifact.

Maybe you did change
after all, maybe I’m the fool
on the other side of the glass
stagnant, expecting something
different, when the sign
above clearly reads,
“Visting hours are over.”