(Note to myself what I like about you)

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Dear Sibyl,

You gently turn off the light on the end of your ailments, to speak only half-heartedly.
You trace the imprint of broken things on paper.

And with you, the hand replaces the heart.

You manage to draw a feeling, a moment, a smell,
You let us, with the color of our memories, color your flowers, which wither.

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Owning little hides wonders.

At your place, if we take the time to open up the smallest treasure box that you collect;

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There we will find your heart in the open - which you protect from your secret tortures,
  in dream spaces.

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Around you, a halo of silence.

You write for people who are silent in the infinitely small.

You draw, the invisible torments, like little birds that never close their wings and resist the wind.

In the sky of our imagination, where our paths crossed, one day.

You gave me the desire to tell the inspiring Story of Love, of the Flight of this so beautiful Butterfly.

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Cassandra.

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