 | theworldsqueen ; ✝ |
My muse has left their old, brown leather book somewhere
by accident. It looks like it’s seen years of wear and tear,
and upon opening it your muse discovers that it’s full of wishes
that never came true and times in their life when
they were hurt/alone/sad.
Send me a “✝” to read a wish or sad memory (specify which.)
from the book.
23 Gennaio 2005
❝ Today I went visiting his grave. I asked Mista not to come with me, this time, and deal with a smugglers causing troubles in Naples’ outskirts. It was for the best —I don’t want him to see me cry every time he looks away.
It’s been five years since I turned his corpse into a swarm of butterflies. It’s a thing I had to do because I couldn’t let him being found out by civilians, —or, even worse, I couldn’t allow him to rot. They’re still haunting my dreams, sometimes, floating on the background with their black and white designs, almost wanting to assure themselves if I’m still alive.
I saw one of them on his grave, after decorating it with new flowers. Only one, silent, placidly resting on the marble surface where his name was carved. The decors reminded me of that lace piece he had under his jacket, contrasting perfectly with the white.
I couldn’t resist.
I dropped on my knees and cried. I think I did that for a whole minute. The grief is still too strong.
When I lifted my head, the butterfly wasn’t on the tombstone anymore. I looked around, and i found it placing itself on my nose, before flying away.
… I want to think he wanted to tell me to be okay, and not to cry for him.
I miss you, Bruno. ❞
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