Was eternity filled with men, sitting in a circle of soft pillows, talking of Isabell.
Her short years. How her hair fell through their fingers as she sleps half leaning on their chest, looking like the fall of feminism. How she would climb of her pedestal to smoke cigars and tell jokes of truck stops while leaning her knees on their shoulders.
Life itself fell around her navel and she would coo softly while grasping onto their arms, she laughed while they cried out in glory that would lead to couples passing by folding their hands and look out to the seaside.
The sky is filled with Isabell’s eyes and they remember how they left their pride at her thighs.