you pulled my hand with such a slight effort, like you were taking a teenager for shopping, you were the girl with a sapphire bandanna, and your hair lacking composure, not ready to be stroked by the Roman ghosts, which for unreasonable tenacity have always created a war between your hobby and your will to die, and the peace treaties on the shelves of your heart have compromised with the guilt under your fingernails, and transposed to eulogies I always read from your lips when you said 'Your perfume smells like graveyard poetry festooned with dead roses', because this is exactly what you subjoined on the last line about your deceased father, you never understood the reason why i didn't want you to get in contact with my collarbones when we hugged, and apparently I wouldn't let you sleep leaning against the headboard as you told me about witchcraft and ancestors, you remember the skim milk we used to have? In the afternoons of hopeless radiance, when you reached for my ribcage, and whispered it was the only bulletproof jacket you'd wear if bullets had to fall in love with you, all this because we believed in the prophecy of 'us against the world'