I've given so many tiny pieces of myself over the years

Breathing life into written lungs

I know all their names, their lives, loves and friends

And yet what are mine?

All treasured parts of me, real whilst in my head

Unmapped countries, un written battles, a thousand deeds left un-said

The histories are still being written

The candles are still burning

I don't want this to end

I am not one person, but un-numbered societies

I am don't exist merely in this world but in truly vast realities,

With colours so much more alive than those I see each day

I've given so many parts of myself

So now you see I need to know

Can stories die?

Will they leave me hollow?

A fragment of myself?

Or will they be with me over eternity, forever ghosts within my mind?