The cool weather belonging to a December evening felt cold on the bottom of her spine. The wave of death was staring down under her, as the cool metal of her grave stone watched underneath the cool, creamy touch of white winter skin. She felt defeated as the words carried on inside her. The bullet wound still ached under the soft embrace of her warm chocolate hair. The bullet wound carried with death, and blood as she waved over it, a wave of giant pain stormed through her body, catching her spine by surprise as she grew in sharpened pain. They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when everyone stops saying your name. When a person is born, there is a happiest day, and when they get married, we rejoice on the next chapter. But when they die, everyone pretends nothing happened. Erasing those memories of the person, and continuing on, lonely, shattered, and mistaken’d. In life, there's always a person we loved, in death we still love. In our hearts they never vanish, in our hearts you hold a place. A place no one else can fill.