It rained for twelve days straight.
Nobody found me.
I lay there, cold and empty.
For twelve days, not once did anyone come to cup my dead face and weep.
For twelve days, more bodies joined my endless sleep and piled into the small black room.
Rain, storm, wind.
My skin was immensely pale, like the colour of old snow.
Storms collided and rain fell heavily,
my case beginning to become forgotten as the world raged outside,
blocking any trace for my family to come and find me.
For me to magically come back to my joyous self and run into their arms.
I lay there, as my dead eyes looked out into the distance,
what remained of my soul weeping beside it:
Now no one remembers my name.