Her

   She was my pencil to my paper. She was my remote to my tv. She was my brake to my car. She was my wrapper to my candy. She was my everything to my nothing.

And now she is gone.

My pencil fell under the depths of my bed. The remote disappeared somewhere in the couch. My car doesn't know how to stop because someone stole my brake. My candy wrapper was thrown away in the trash, then I accidentally dropped my candy on the disgusting ground. I am not anything. I am completely empty without

her.

Her. She lies in the coffin in front of me. Her face, thought to contain a fragment of immortal beauty, lies restlessly on top a cheap velvet pillow. Her hair, who always had a bounce of liveliness in it, lays flat. Her body gave up fighting gravity and lies there never to go up again. The dress she wore looked to have been bought in thrift store. It had faded, and look as like it has been to a funeral before. Even with the dress, she is the most magnificent women I have ever laid eye upon.

   People say men never cry. I guess I'm not a man because I have cried into the long hours of the night. Now, I am crying. Not that she is gone, but that she is not my pencil, my remote, my brake, my candy wrapper, my everything. She is now, memories in my very depressed mind that will be forgotten when it's time for me to leave this world.

A hand grabs my shoulder. I look back and it's my mother. She tells me, "It's time to go, honey. Everyone else has already left."

I rub my blood-shot eyes, and looked at her one last time. I whispered under my breath, "I will see you soon," and my mother led me out of the room. The room where she laid dead in a coffin.

She was a beautiful young women, whose life was taken from the cancer in her brain. She was a women who fought in the beginning, but in the last few seconds she had given up. She was Wynter Moral Zade.