She recalls meeting him, but wonders if it started before that, in her. Wonders what it was she felt from him that is so irreplaceable. She cannot define it within the boundaries of words, unless there is some shaman who can translate the soul's voice.There is onlythe endless keening, the mourning for a death that doesn't fit into the definition of reality; the absence seems irreparable.
She never can avoid the infatuated pondering of what it was about him that held her. He was a thread in time that she clung to for such a short summer in her soul, before turning away in the hope that it was not too late to salvage some formof life without him. She always knew it could not last, had already heard the sound of an ending to this one pairing arcthroughher mind, a single falling star in the midst of space.A star that shines the brightest just before collapsing in on itself.
But oh, the trappings of time and a solitary mind left to wander its own withered garden of hope. How can it be right, any of this vision of lost existence she holds in her hands like a fragmented mirror. She can only see bits and pieces of reality through these shards, and the more she tries to angle for a better view, the more she slices through the skin and the more blood she loses. After all, she muses bitterly, it is only blood. And so much blood for him -how much is she willing to expend on a love that has passed, and passed?
The question is endless and the answer is only in the nameless whispers that torment her soul, her heart, her mind. After so long, she thinks, after so long.