Standing there
in the back of my mind.
Burning everything down,
like a funeral pyre for your afterimage.

I can almost remember
the way the moon falls on your skin;
I can almost see your face again.
And its delicate
the way your hand flows into mine.
delicate
the way you spoke for yourself,
amidst the fading candles
and reminisce
of all those beautiful and sad people
you used to know.

Did you ever think it would turn out like this?
Chasing the moon for the scent
of your afterglow?
Burning your image
in the back of my mind.

But I can still remember
the way you look at me.
And I can still remember
you're so delicate.

Delicate

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Chakros, in the year 99 MA.