here lies
a restless soul
drowning in eternity
and never ending sequences of
"what if"
she has now become the smoke
that used to fill her lungs;
reckless,
heartless,
s u f f o c a t i n g
she is an enigma;
how does she manage
to still look beautiful
cold, breathless
laying in a satin bed of roses
draped in death?
her hands,
her skin—
frozen to the touch
leaving me with
h y p o t h e r m i a
in June
her words lingered;
scrawled out in messy,
pained calligraphy
echoing,
calling my name;
h a u n t i n g m e
"a pile of bones and memories
is all that will be left of
us"
