emsigala

The winds shove the leaves aross the sky

As the trees shudder with fear of being alone.

My heart is shoved by the memory of her smile

As my senses shudder with remembrance of all that I've lost.

How can one not see the beauy in a rotten flower?

Zubeneschamali illuminates our skies they way she illuminated my life.

Seeing her again would either end my existance or revive what's remaining of my heart.