People die.
But their stories live on in the hearts of those
who had loved them.
Like the fire which has burned out.
But the ashes still remaining.

The memories wiped out
after years pass by,
Like the ashes swept
Away by the wind.

Yet the trees, the sky, the sun,
They all remain witness
to the life that was once lived
to the laughter and tears it shed.

Immortal therefore to nature,
Is the fickle human soul,
It lives on forever,
Witnessed by the sun, moon and stars-though ages may roll.

parts of me breaking off with every instant
and parts of me growing, but always changing

I too have secrets and corners of my mind too dark to wander into
but we all do
and the sculpture of our hearts
wouldn't be the same without its highs and lows
bright places and shadows

we're all just broken beauties with hot glue and duct tape
messing around with each other's hearts, sometimes burning ourselves
or each other, sometimes dropping things, or fixing it haphazardly
one half bigger than its opposite, or the seams straining and showing,
and yet, it's still art. We're still art.

Ten
Your laugh
Nine
Your love
Eight
Your forgiveness
Seven
That night you first held me
Six
The day I last saw you
Five
The night I last held you
Four
The day you came back to me
Three
The day we said goodbye
Two
The day I told you who you were to me
One*
The night I lost you all over again.