Like a candle, in a dark room.
Like the spark of a match, about to light a cigarette.
Our downward spiral had started long ago, yet as long as we flew together, life felt like a walk in the clouds.
I’m but a regular snowflake, she said. For she was modest. Truth be told, she was like no other.
Thank you for the ride, I told her, before we dissolved into white oblivion.
Death is not black. It can also be white.
For snow is but dead snowflakes.