Aoife
The room was warm; her skin was cold. Machines beeped. Suddenly, they didn’t. It was a silence i still scream forever. My favorite angel— born before her time; the one for whom i waited a lifetime. The more gentle parts of a broken man… i held a tiny hand. one that i just can’t fucking let go. The hand i feel whenever i close 100 proof eyes.. Her absence— the gap in my soul; her memory— the burn in my gut.. i stand, alone, facing an East Wind blowing. she sleeps, unaware, in velvet of Irish green. Far away from me, on a little hill filled with big sorrows. in the haunting symphony of my intimate melancholy, hers is the sweetest …
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