On my walks she haunts me still
on this place of the figurative fall.
Her eyes naked as we are,
bared to the blowing wind.
She could see the height of my heart
and hold it in her gaze
as the one and only worthy gift.
She thought it hers, and so did I;
all the hours for us to make a home in,
of all the coming to make plans. So we thought -
hopes now to belittle, to watch from afar,
hopes to throw as dying whispers for the wind.
I close my eyes to invite her ghost,
but her silence holds. Only this place now a memory of her,
only these hills a monument for the lost.
My monument of fallen hearts.
Selite:
(In one version of the story she dies, pigtails and all.) First draft: something I've been planning a long time. Most likely an occupational hazard.
- Kirjaudu tai rekisteröidy kommentoidaksesi
