She was staring in vain at the corner of the ceiling,
being threatened by a terrible insomnia,
her soul now feels like a big rock peeling
and she thinks: why wasn't meant to be, this euphoria?

Overwhelmed by a misunderstood sadness, guessing,
she is trying to gather a bunch of good thoughts,
praying for the happiness to give her good blessing,
for the fate not to take revenge anymore with its knots.

But then, a slight fatigue shadows her eyes
she remains petrified and breathless,
her cold hands, she keeps them tightened in disguise
and falls down above the paper, senseless.

No, she did not die. Nothing happened. Really.
Just her forehead lost its light, her eyes are absent,
nostalgia is reappearing, as a good old friend, freely
in the sanctuary of love, the demons are present.

She would've preferred for this to be just her imagination,
and the fear that devours her soul, would go away,
leaving deep scars on her with the life's delusion,
but no. She is not any wiser. She just wants to stay.