She didn’t seem dead, at least not in the picture, and I wanted to reach out to her, to meet her and to
tell her that I still loved her, that I was sorry for breaking my promise.
Only later was I told that Delilah had used her own blood to write down the message. She
had loved me with passion, with beauty, in red and in black, but it was too much for her to bear, and
her fragile soul was ripped apart. The blood on her bed symbolized the love we had shared, the pain
I had created, and the death of an unfortunate soul. What is love – uncontrollable, unpredictable, and
unsustainable.
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