The soil isn’t the place where they buried me, oh vain wanderer. It’s in the little cracks and crevices of their mind, where I was interred with the sprinkling of the mosaics of madness and the rush of memories. The little worms of wistfulness that slither in their nerves make them jitter, for they know I’m not the ivy covered fence which they could leap with their philandering heart. I was the girl in the closet, packed with the creaking smell of naphthalene balls and the unfolded sands of days. I painted the edge of the universe on the tufts of hair of my temple, for people claimed it had not been found. I ran through photographs in albums they had threatened me never existed, that spoke to me like a long drawn echo, coming from somewhere inside me I couldn’t possibly lay my hands into. Love, I found out was hidden in haunted attics. When I first saw it, it trembled with a distinct vibration of heartache my melancholic days were not unfamiliar too. I was a little pouch of miracle, I was told later by it. I smiled so large, I can never forget. So dearest, when you see my epitaph, it may not speak to you about euphoria and elegance, for I was the quotient of the cluster of clueless clashes of colours stringed by the loose hands of love. I won’t matter much in your world, I know. Because when you consider things like the stars, the apocalypse of apologies juxtaposed in my parts don’t matter that much, do they?