By the window she sleeps,
And as I always do at 3pm I passed by her window and there she is
Sleeping like an angel, her face so serene that as a great observer as I am couldn�t even foresee
An allusion of sadness that crept over her pure heart.
To hear that she died the next day it torments me in my sleep.
I couldn�t fathom any reason of why she resorted to this demise,
And so I went to ascertain for myself the truth that hunts my being.
By 3pm as always, I passed by her window one last time,
The chair where she usually sits was empty,
Stopping on my track I starred at her seat, and as if it wasn�t strange enough
I saw no changes; the house was at its normal state like it never even lost her,
Everything was just the same.
And on my way home waiting for the bus stop, I broke down on my knees.
Was she even there?
Was she real?
That sweet smile she always had on her sleeping face,
Those eyes that held the meaning of beauty and grace,
Her flawless skin the shines like a glitter of the sun,
Those rosy lips that seemed tender to touch,
She defined everything that rouses my sleep,
Now here I am on the brink of my mentality,
My tears that never seem to fall now pours over my intangible heart.
In my world she existed, and in my life she held meaning.
I�ll keep her in my memories; it�s my only way to show her she was alive.
She was.
For me she had lived.
She had a life.
She had, for me.
