and when I wake, where will I go?

Will I follow the path of those before me?

Am I soon to fade?

Fade, like the highlight that was once as bright as her eyes used to light up in photographs?

window pane melancholy: misfortune

Her hair blew smoke ring stars into the wind, with the scent of sweet hope and reoccuring dreams.

Oh, how I long for her.

My sweet, beautiful sunshine,

how I hope you'll be okay.

I pray that you won't dim once I have gone.*

She is my every reoccurring dream.