When the shards of sunlight penetrate the little castle of shadows I’ve created, I think of how you would sometimes trace your fingers along the cracks in the earth and promise me that one day they would all be filled in, and then I wonder where on earth you could be now, when I still sometimes wake up screaming from the nightmares of your dead body lying peacefully in the snow, your crimson blood coloring the white perfection, when I still sometimes hear the bullet that cut you off from existence pierce your flesh, when I still sometimes feel the horrifying echoing resonance of your guttural scream, your final cry before the black birds of the grim reapers sheathed you in their veiling feathers and took you from me.
I like to pretend you’re only in another world, journeying to your heart’s content and mapping out the foreign terrain on pages sealed with salt water and your promises to me, and I do it so often that sometimes I forget you’re really dead, that you’re really gone.
So I just press evening tears in-between the pages that held your soul, and I think to myself that wherever you are now, you’re still filling in the cracks in the earth, filling in the voids in my heart.