All your notebooks written in poems know about your Andrea.

She smells of mint and cheap cherry wine, a pencil sticks out behind her ear, and in her hands she is leafing through an old fairy tale book found in an old drawer in the attic. She looks at the half-erased illustrations with a smile and invents her own story out loud from them, giggling with embarrassment. She always succumbed to her own worlds (or maybe the worlds succumbed to her), she gave her soul completely, scattered pieces of herself here and there, left traces wherever she went and seduced the echo of empty fantasies with her ringing laughter.

The drops of tears shed at night will always be hidden in the cats, which she strokes without regret and in her shabby sweaters, merging with her eyes, in which she hid during cold January.

There’s a cold smile shines on her face, her bottomless eyes were polished from granite, and her voice came from nymphs carelessly singing on the banks of rivers. She is gathered by caring angels with snow-white wings and blessed with a bright sun, a grain of which still lives somewhere deep in her ribs.

The messengers of the stars seeped under her skin, marked her nose and cheeks with freckles, and nourished her hair with bergamot juice. Andrea will forever be loved by her pillow, glitter of the domes, caramel syrup and your big heart.

These are your thoughts when you are sitting in her attic, the wind blows through the open window on the roof, and this pencil sticks out in her hair again. Why would she need it? She didn't even write anything, perhaps a calming attribute for nerves.

"Oh, to hell with admitting that you're a millionaire and our friendship was a test! You'd better say that you're a vampire and we'll run away from this world to your dark castle to drink wine and pick up each other's outfits, one blacker than the other!" Her stupid words make you smile again, and you almost refrain from running your fingers through her hair. Your fingers could replace that damn pencil, right?