Memory Crystal droplets falling on my palms, of the hands you sometimes held, with the hands I used to hold, those hands I no longer own. Yet I feel I belong. Looking up, I find your eyes, soft blue, and Orange shades, when the sun sets. And the day ends. And your voice fades, as I close my eyes, repeating itself in my mind.

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Flower You were the small branch of a patient tree, the longed flower which blossomed early that year, with an eternal sigh of agony, for it was to last. A flower taken away, higher than the tree could reach, nothing to be done, no comfort to be gained. Flown away, in his hands, with eyes shut, and with only one breath: your last and your first.

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Canvas On a tainted, marked canvas, soft strokes of oils, and colourless paint, undetermined curves, undefined shades. Sightless, no need for light, blind moves: An immaculate guide. A work of art: The canvas white. No taint, No marks.

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My eyes closing, restless and exhausted, in my mind a escape, in my eyes a cage, the walls began to close, the roof seems nearer now, the voices clearer now, the ringing loud, gasping for air, blurred lights, sharp night, no soul, not mine, no tracks left behind.

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As his grasp loosened from my hand, as his eyes looked me one more time, I heard his wordless farewell, I felt the breathless pain, I felt his heart stop, and mine beat in vain.

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