She found my scars in the back room
Of some party at some house.
Her tears wet the scabs.
Her fear locked her arms around me.
She opened my ribs
And held my heart in her hands.
She nursed it to health, cursed the disease,
Thawed the freeze of love.

Relapse; My knees snapped,
Staggered and fell back.
But she listened whilst my arms glistened.
My Nightingale helped the scars go pale.
Her deep blue eyes held my flaws,
Until they went a duller hue.
Her firm embrace didn't withdraw
Until my jumper was her only view.
Our hands touched, not enough,
Lips lust, needed more. We ******.

The truth was, sympathy wasn't love.
A job done didn't mean 'the One'.
The fantasy we lived hit her like a ton
Of bedsheets and lies. She tried.
So she told me the facts,
She'd held me in tact. And now that I could
Walk, she thought it best we shouldn't talk.
It was abrupt, all the pain would erupt.
The knife leered, my mind jeered
But her lamp, she said,
Would never leave my bed.
So it shone instead, a flame of gold.

It was upsetting, our sun setting,
Yet now I don't cut.
I can make steps on my own.
I see colour in the sky.
To her I owe my wasted time.
Still, every night, I sit by the light,
And pray. Pray for just one more
Sunrise.