A ghost of what I used to be,
though I'm not quite sure what that was.
She likes the rain because it
reminds her that even something
as beautiful as the sky is allowed to cry, too.
Skeletal hands trace the space where fire meets ice.
She was a freshly bloomed rose,
one look and I was hooked, but
I shed blood every time we touched.
My words ghost right past my lips
and she doesn't know that I like the rain
because it reminds me of her tears on
the day she left me. A little peice of her
in every small and watery drop.