from the road where she roams, to the little red cuts, to the chocolate you used to have her home with, vague little hearts tattooed next to your mark fade away like a myth. it’s springtime shower and little white flower, a memory stitched in the drift. the midnight hour, the christmas vow, will never be the same without you. the lights, the nights, the bridges you built, the sights and fights and lessons she learned, the pain, the chain, the ice and the rose, the beauty and sorrow that weaves her tomorrow. she swears she will never let go, she will never grow old. 

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the fall in that big, beautiful garden of hers, when everything was all fine and the land was at its moistest, like the rain itself trying to thread into a suffocating web. maybe you did and she just didn’t know, but in any case she remembers the racing through the willow and wetlands to be with you, to jump into the piles of huge raked-up leaves, running over mountains, and hearing laughter like the rumbling of a stomach, a promise that she’d be fed for days, maybe for the rest of her lives at this rate. back then she’d look up and know a show, a sign of hugeness in the sky, and back then she knew about magic and everything was fine again. all of it feels like strands pulled through the years.

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yes, you say dostoevsky was the one who said the winter is cruel to those who have no memories to keep their hearts warm, but then again she asks herself what writers know about hearts, or being alive, why they know more than she does—more than you do, for that matter. maybe memory is just the thread she holds so the cold doesn’t take her whole. 

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take her where the road doesn’t roam, where the rivers don’t flow, where the threads of you meet like a quiet tapestry no one else can see. take her where the stars never shine. take her down, down the road of dreams and hope, take her somewhere your flame won’t be put out in the rain, take her somewhere no one knows her name. take her far, far away to a brighter place, take her flying through the night like a satellite, slipping through the dark on a single silver line.