first, you lose your voice.
then you begin to fade; like the moon, as the sun burns it from the sky.
your sense of self grows small,
as if it's locked away, in a place between worlds.
you're not you anymore; just the ghost of summer as winter freezes the world.
i think this must be like the collapse of a star: silent, yet screaming.
and in space, there is nobody to hear you.

there are girls made of storms,
and girls born of fire;
but the ones I love best are roses.
they’re beautiful, with thorns,
and roots that reach deeper than the winter frost.