(Source: visualoptimism.blogspot.com)
It didn’t matter in the end how old they had been, or that they were girls, but only that we had loved them, and that they hadn’t heard us calling, still do not hear us, up here in the tree house with our thinning hair and soft bellies, calling them out of those rooms where they went to be alone for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death, and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together.
You know that place between sleeping and awake, that place where you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always think of you.
