My Dear

I remember walking into that room,

warm and comforting as it was.

I was but youth and simplicity. I was but calm.

To wear a smile is a wonderful thing;

to do so like a puppet whose emotion is naught but fiction is yet more so.

I was happy, indeed.

You were but aged soul and complication. A thing of beauty.

To feel an emotion unexpected is exciting;

the thing, the excitement, in that moment, is unexpected in itself.

I remember you being, oftentimes, quite dark; a little solemn.

Or, rather, a lot.

I remember it, certainly, when I walked into that room.

A beautiful dress remembering that you had always been a canvas;

hair so kept, so perfectly pinned;

your eyes as blue as ever, shining.

You were floating, suspended;

cold against the warmth of the room; warm, now, against the cold in your heart.

You, my dear, were always dark, indeed.

But there, floating, suspended –

there I had never seen you look so beautiful; hanging there.

Pearls, this time, not upon your neck; you were simply floating, hanging.

I remember walking into that room.

You had never looked so peaceful.