My heart of papier mache, dissolved in tears.
                   From tired days
  and wearied years.

 Angelic writing,

I read her line.
An Enchanted diary.
I just felt our souls, intertwine.
Here's to a life,
                      without expiry.


I thought about
how lost I was. High,
                    on a cosmetic buzz.

I heard her voice all around.
Then, I heard it resound.  

But how was that? she's not alive,

She died of typhus,
                              spring  of 1945.