When the heart aches

The girl from the painting

He painted her as he imagined

But she's not an easy girl

Harry  wrote her as a rebel, running free to the sunrise, leaving behind empty beds

Rafaell sang about a gypsy dancer, with skirts as red as her lips and moves as sharp as her eyes

 Willy graffitied her name on every abandoned wall until his own damaged heart was healing

So many loves, so many stories, so little feelings

Better knock, she won't let you in

She would never use the white veil, she'll lift her dress and run through the heavy wooden doors

Heavy as her heart

To the sound of bells, crossing the garden, the car is waiting and the ticket is bought

Where is she going?

Anywhere but here

Is she running too fast?

Is she going too far?

Are stories enough to warm elderliness?