A single, soft, sweet regret falls from the boquet of roses and onto her grave.

People come and people go. And sometimes we remember them for a second, or a minute, or for a lifetime more or so.

She seemed so happy, she was getting it all together. People never do have a good reason. Never have had a good reason. Just a note scrawled on a napkin, or written out and left in the typewriter, or a simple pile of pills left as a final quiet exclamation mark to the world.

Maybe shes happy now, maybe shes sad now. Guess i'll never know. All I can expect is the cold screaming silence that comes when we think of the dead. But thats life, and thats death. And what can we really do except hope for sunshine and clean air... flowers of all colors, and to look out at the world and say though all I have is so far, I will go farther still. And from the dead the one hope that one can hope to have is the simple sweet solemn notion, that maybe they watch us with devotion.