Emily rested in a delicate patchwork
made out of blinding sounds
and perfumes.
Are you talking to me? Emily played
with little dusty particles in the air.
And wrote about it in the very wind
she breathed and let go from her lungs.
I could see her very lungs filled with
the images of a colorful forest
that only existed trough her vital mixture.
Emily saw me standing with my eyes wide open
decoding the letters at her feet, accidental
and purposeful to unresponsive beings,
unresponsive creatures she knew well.
Her look was the sun blooming and
undresing, fireworks eclipsing by the
movement of her eyelashes. And she called me
friend.
Friend, sit by me. Let's knit together.
We knitted socks and baked some cookies.
And her self deprecating humour made me laugh
my head off. We also uncovered the secrets
of the Universe without leaving her windows.
She wrote the sunrise. She wrote the sea.
She made the bees dance just in front of me.
And while sharing her maiden poetry with
my astonishment
she held my hand and taught me to write
sunrises and seas and bees and secret dances.
And life. Simple life.
I kissed her goodbye and she gave me
a bag full of bread and apples.
I'm your disciple, Emily. I am
the one who will kiss your tombstone
every single saturday afternoon.
No, she frowned as if I had been cursing nature.
No, you are my friend.
You are nothing less
than my sister and my friend.//
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