She had a comely figure which was stem-thin. Her waist was tapered and a pair of arched eyebrows looking down on sweeping eyelashes glared on a book. A set of dazzling, angel-white teeth gleamed as she blew gently on her carmine-red fingernails. It was a pleasure to watch her kohl-black hair which plunged over her shoulders. Her saccharine sweet lips looked blossom soft.
We grew up together playing, studying, counting stars in the garden. I proposed her in the same place, engraved our names on the old oak tree beneath which I had spent hours sprawling in her lap. I married her and bought a house right in front of that garden. I thought this was it, a felicitous ending to my story.
I still spend hours under that tree waiting for my death. We thought our love was paramount until that accident suddenly destroyed everything. Her cemetery is my favourite garden now. My grave waits for me right beside her under the same oak tree. Our love is immortal and resting beside her will give me eternal peace. I live with a hope to die someday, cause there is always a music in the garden but our hearts must be quiet to hear it.