When the tides have turned and the ocean has released its mounds of blackened water, soaring against the sky to fit back the million broken pieces, that’s when, that’s when I will remember your name and call you by it. When all the white horses have broken free of mankind’s thoughts and are no longer held by the reins; that’s when you’ll become visible to me, right in front of me at the glade of dead trees and the old ruins of a church long gone. Its bell still tolls.

And when the sky beckons to the ocean screaming its ancient heresy in true words, steaming angrily and catching breath on broken birds’ bones, that’s when you’ll take my hand by the dead trees’ glade and I’ll feel your touch. Forgotten is yesterday and idle puns hurled at me; dead girl, dead girl, dead girl, we know your darkness. But only you have ever even known a single fragent of what I am.

I fear for the fragment whose key you hold and whose lock you have built and whose doors you have stroked and whose walls you have steadied. I fear for your heart as you are so soft and tender, and the love which coats all your dreams and always has been doing so is akin to the beating of a newborn animal’s heart.

You are the epitome of an innocence completely independent and willing. It is the sheer force of the impact of your voice that renders landscapes, visions and dimensions of fear unable to move and unable to speak. Caught in a room with me, all shadows trail carefully and swiftly to my feet and turn to the shapes of my nightmares. I am disaster, painful betrayal and wistful hoping for another chance, which I cannot grant.

When the world hits on the catch where it shall and never will pass further, things that have always been made undone will disintegrate and dissolve. What has never meant anything to anyone and never bore even a sliver of vividness will shed in a moment, gone. At last, all shadows turn to grey and crumble to dust. I’ll be found then.

I watch thus, as the sky consumes itself under the verge of a dying ocean, and a shore full of rotting seashells. I wonder where noise, where sound, where the laughter of life has gone to, but I know with truth that all living is swallowing itself. As in an act of pride, the sun and the moon parade for one last time, meeting on a half point and uniting in a flash of stained light.

Horrifying revelation is to be expected, should grip my soul. But I become void of all. Even darkness leaves me now, but a thin sheet of tears trailing the ground. If I could feel still, I’d feel you approaching from the abyss of destruction. You’d have wings if there were any left in the world. You’d have the most wonderful clothing ever made by humans, but now even the fabric of reality is torn. Pearls would envy you for your skin, as if you were made of snow. And your hair may contain a thousand autumns, should they ever happen anew. What wouldn’t you be if there were anything left to imitate, to become, to belong to?

It is the dawn of the last thought I wish to have conjured, knowing you are indefinitely more and even less. Wanting to go back to all the years lived, wanting to reach out to you there, to hold your empty eyes for a second eternal. All you are is all I once was. And all I was to become is what you were. In the falling of the last second left, I know I will never have to be forgiven, and I turn my face to yours, to whisper your name and to cry for your heart, finally whole.

And then all ends.

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