He squeezes her shape into a suit that fits
But happily disregards the ones that don't,
As every material or materialistic item
Is merely just temporary clothing he wears for his comfort.

Her silky waist down and up to her cotton flammable heart,
Both burn and tear just as easy as the next,
Despite his sweet persona,
He's as bitter and acidic as chemistry gone wrong.

But he washes and rinses her into a wave of hope,
And she drowns,
Because she has been habituated to drowning.

Cold bones is her love,
But he always glides away like a ghost in the night,
Questioning whether he bleeds the same blood,
Because is it humanly possible to do the things he could.

She has dreamt of his silhouette all night
But is unable to see the whole faded image,
The silence has become part of her,
You clipped the angel wings she would bare just for you
And is no longer able to fly.

Instead she drowns in an ocean that you quaked,
Suffocated on an island of crashed cold bones,
Cold, cold bones.

Even when she was the soldier
That never fled from battle,
You made her the brute
With a machine heart and machine mind,
Steered from her innocence
And tenderness to be kind.