Fragile hands clutch the pages of the book of nostalgia. Remembrances bite like needles in the chest. Fallable phony. A heart can only pine for as long it prevails amidst the painful longing. Death descends upon nightfall in structures of uncertain shadows that trace history. The flames of cremation mark the finale of a send-off, yet, a portion of me burned along with you.

Just three more nights, and realistic imagination will replay, haunting consciousness and dreams. Cruel anticipation.

July, the month of melancholy and woe, absence and departure, three years, one everlasting affinity, Marion.