You're dying, you know
Your memory
The way you smell
Almost gone
The flecks of colour in your eyes
Are fading
The callouses on your hands against my bare skin
Did that ever happen?
Your voice,
Could've been the wind,
Or a crows call
You're dying
If not for the sound of your heart,
Still beating in my ear,
You'd be dead already
The memory of you will fade,
And fade
A memory of a memory
I will forget your smile,
The sound of your voice,
I'll forget the way you always smell like freshly cut grass
The way you look in orange
But the sound of your heart beating,
When I laid my head on your chest. . . . .