“ even the dead tell stories my dear, not of their of will (of course) but of ours. An old friend once told me that we continue on in the souls of the one we love, I was always so full, of stories my sweet now it your choice how to tell them. y-you will never lose me, you will only lose the sound of my voice and the touch of my hand as everything else lives on inside you”...

She laid back her head

Sore from the misery

And let herself bleed onto the grass

As she had no other choice

And if she was -so certainly- to die she didn’t want to die in harshness of real

She wanted to die, here in this place

to die dream dreaming of the future she fought so hard for

where the grass was of golden silk and even the very sky whispered songs of belonging...

I saw the way you cared so little

I saw the way you grew

I saw the way you became

The way you twisted around life so careful never to hurt it again

You used your skin to weave a shield

Your heart as a sword

And your soul as a bargaining chip

And because of that you lost so much of yourself (but you saved so much of the world)...

We hold so much, so close to our heart

Grasp tight our hands

I grasped you so tight

And yet you turned to ash in my fingers

I have carried

So much on my shoulders

But what is the point -in searching for all the lost things

you know you can never touch-...