She was 19, he was dead.
She took his heart and gave her bed.
No softer things were ever said.
They were together nightly.

He told her how her words could make
his voice to shudder, knees to shake.
She said it was a nice mistake.
She said so quite contritely.

She left him there to reminisce
of how they'd speak, of how she'd kiss,
then momentarily remiss,
his manners grew unsightly.

They say he took her by the hand
and brushed aside her hair of sand.
He spoke aloud the words he'd planned.
His eyes were shining brightly.

He told her she would never leave
his mind to wallow, heart to grieve,
that she would be the one bereaved,
his fingers gripping tightly.

Her bones were breaking, face was pale,
her eyes had formed a stormy gale
that sent her makeup setting sail.
She spoke to him forthrightly:

"You are the devil, you my doubts,
you are the hope I live without.
You'd have me cry and scream and shout,
but I'll say this politely.

I'll take my chances, starting now,
and set my heart to disavow
my head to take another bow."
Her words so sharp and sprightly,

she broke his heart, his hand, his hold,
and at his weakest, he was told,
"I'm not the type to be controlled.
Don't **** with me so lightly."