in a dead language - vmon

xi.

Maybe, I live on until your presence in my life is just a moment that passed by, until you're a flicker of a soul casting silhouettes in my mind, until you're a flashback that haunts me in the middle of the night, until you're a candle light and the wax is burnt away by sunrise. Maybe, I don't.

Either way, we're remembered. Even if it's just for a moment, every now and then.

(And maybe, we're remembered eons later when our names are spoken in a dead language and the story of our life is turned into a legend on a tapestry.

After all, they never forget lovers, and tragedies like ours are rarely ever forgotten; they're just polished into something beautiful.)

the end