There was a book that was always with her, a lot of people says that it's a part of her life.
The book contained words that harken back her memoir. The story was very her, yet she consider the author as her savior.
She never let anyone take it far from her, even inches away.
One day, she was hit by a car, and was there, left lifeless. Still, her book was still in between her two, soft, bloody hands.
A friend of hers took the book from her and read the last part.
It tells that the main character died because of a car accident.
It was really her life. It was destined for her. The book, was literally, her life. Not a part, but really her life.
YOU ARE READING
An Obscure Reflection
PoetryMy simple thoughts can be a vast of strange collection of words. These strange collections of words completes me. [01 13 2020 - republished, but not revised, for personal reasons] [01 13 2020 - I made this compilation three years ago and I was just...
