Conjecture

A life spent in motion
Laid down to rest
In the dark of dark itself
In the cold
In the cold dying black
With mineral pieces and memories
We see only pieces of your face and your thoughts
I can hear a whisper and a joking
And someone says that forget what has happened
Shooting star
He says I’m gone, says goodbye, says I’m gone
He says I’ll miss you
Says I’ll miss you
And I was never offered the chance to say goodbye
Goodbye