I contemplate your pale skin, your arms lying beside your perfect body. Your peaceful face seems to be asleep, but are you really asleep? I touch your right hand, soft as skin, and it is cold as marble. Your curves appear to be carved in silver, and your red lips are wet from my last kiss. Your chest is not moving, and despite the beauty of the place in which we are, everything seems cold to me. Suddenly, your image starts to wobble, the grey and black clouds are back, replacing the blue sky and the shimmery sun. All the grass transforms into a dry and dead field, the beeches suddenly are dead, dark and terrifying.
You are not here anymore, there is a dusty grave and a marble stone with your name scratched in it, and I am holding a gloomy bouquet of daisies instead of your hand. I feel tired, so I just lay beside your remains, and I feel a light breeze through my hair. I hear a voice inside my mind, your heavenly voice, calling my name many years ago, like the echo of a memory. A bright light blinds my eyes, once green like an emerald but now extinct and of the colour of the water in swamps. Someway I can see your face and your hand extended to mine. I try to make a last effort, but suddenly the breeze turns into a hurricane wind, your grave breaks and I fall down into it, while I see how your illusion is breaking little by little. Then my
stops beating and everything turns black.
