Little pieces of our hearts. Scattered through the meadows. Cold sunlight on skins that touch. I can feel myself dissolving in this cold place, a hill that is a slope towards the other side of an endless forest. Like a dandelion. Dying to the hand of the wind. The tears reflect your face. Tiny mirrors between the trees. From a memory that was made on the day. When the first yellow leaf. Turned into white dust. In disbelief.