I have a library of unfinished, unwritten volumes inside me. And you can ascertain my love, and maybe, my hate for you by the number of half blank pages you add to that library, or the amount of ink that the thought of you makes me spill on pages I can never keep a track of.

I’ve been told that our bodies are made from the same thing as the stars.
So after my body is ash, and stardust, try to find the many crumpled and the rare, neatly folded pages in the library of my home with blue curtains.
The pages that will sum up the screams of my heart when it could no longer silently beat.

You’ll find yourself, and people you know. You’ll find people you haven’t met, and you’ll meet people who do not exist.
You’ll find me.

So even though you returned the stardust to the sky and the ashes to the soil, the ink that required a drop of my blood and a tear stained cheek in someone’s honor can be the companion of the kindle wood of your fireplace. You see, I don’t want to be accused of having no warmth at all.


I wrote this last night when it was well beyond one o’clock.
I wrote this when I should have been studying history.
Excuse me, but I must go cram for tomorrow.

Until We Meet Again.


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