I am stretched on your grave and will lie there forever,
If your hands were in mine, I'd be sure they'd not sever.
My apple tree, my brightness 'tis time we were together,
For I smell of the earth and am stained by the weather.
It's a 17th-century Irish poem: perhaps a tad too romantic. But he is... was... my best friend...
I feel like I can't even convay full thoughts. Just random snapshots of life together, vague feelings, and the huge... vacant... ache.
I couldn't even tell you where I know the poem... or is it a song? I'm almost sure there was music that went with it.
Or was that just one of the many tunes from his violin? It won't stop going round in my head.
It's maddening not to be able to think clearly.
I am stretched on your grave
I can't even begin to explain what funny flips my heart does when I actually stand over his grave.
Can someone get over something like this?
He did accomplish it, I guess; the world is rid of an evil man.
No more Moriarty, no more evil crime lord...
No more giggling in our flat over something stupid one of us said.
No more bursting in my room at 3 in the morning because he finally solved the case and wanted me to go out to dinner.
No more
No... I don't think people get over things like this. Not as close as we were.
We weren't even close like normal people are.
I don't know what we were.
I don't care.
We were.
No... I don't think people do get over things like this.
I still will be your shelter
Through rain and through storm
And with you in your cold grave
I cannot sleep warm
A/N My favorite version of the song .com/watch?v=tbcrsOb9K64
