Oh, there is plenty of dust in my little drawer. Don’t worry yourself on that matter. Though, I’d love matches. I want to see the lines on my hands once more. My little river ways and canals that circle themselves across my palm, I used to read stories from those lines. Sometimes I glimpsed the future. There were soldiers, buttons and epaulettes. There were roses, violets and Aidens and Aspens and Ashes. There were seaside kisses, postage stamps and envelopes with Fragile and Handle With Care. There were rooms meant for crying, rooms meant for sighing, rooms with open windows looking out to sea, rooms with torn wallpaper and neglected fireplaces. There were strangers, tailors, inventors and scholars. There were tortuous adieus and tender glances from shy eyes on trains. There was laughter, there was pain, there was music, art, love and life. There was death. There were bottles with letters, peppermint teas, and children handholding. There was me. There was you. There were our fingers interlaced, underneath the dirt, underneath the willow tree, turning into bone, turning into dust. There was you. There was me. There were the two of us, flying in the air, two white moths, sewing silk, falling in the light.
