She cradled the stars before she died, she lured them in like she did with me. Pale landscapes, darkened hands, this is what she did, this is what she loved.

She investigated the way the love of her life moved like a tendril
that didn’t have the same devotion or patience that poured like finger ink.

She had no time, she didn’t understand her crescent moon mind and so paved away the thick red lines, as if the madness would vanish.

But the madness in her clotted like a hazardous playground,
all she wanted was to be loved in return by the one she called her saviour.

She was forever quizzical; ”why are you like this?” She would ask. Knowing she had seen her love freaking out on the bathroom floor just the day before.

She tried to control the flow but there was a barrier between abnormal and well. It didn’t stop her from craving a kiss but the kiss was stale, it was dead.

She deserved someone who wasn’t evasive. Not a curer but a good conscience that wouldn’t even help undo; just indulge in the sodden and non sodden parts.

And if she had’ve let me, I would’ve liked to be that person. I could’ve done anything to see the untroubled moments and the realisation that she is worthy of this.

And when I come to think about it, she really does suit death. One day I’ll be dead too, maybe I’ll see her linking arms with it, telling it a joke. Yeah. I like that.