He said he had me like the rain;
I was cold, and sharp, and I always slipped away.
I never intended to slip through your fingertips,
though I often find myself doing so.
I am not hard to hold onto,
but I am simply hard to hold.
My skin is lined with thorns,
but I am not as pretty as a rose.
His words felt like velvet
as he told me why he only half smiled.
I hardly paid attention, but,
I loved it when I did.
He was like a fire;
he was fascinating until
you gave him half a touch.
He burned.
I laced threads that were,
damp with his breath
as I stitched up the holes in his shoes.
His laugh was worn and stale,
as he leaned back in his chair.
His shoes were barely patched,
and his eyes were still dark and black.
I didn't think his darkness,
would take a stable home.
I hoped that all his horrors
would eventually leave him alone.
He had splinters in his ribcage,
and trying lines on his spine.
His body bends as he rolls over,
he never sleeps at night.
His alarm is always calling,
like his mother by the stairs.
His sister's always falling,
for the boys with metal on their lips,
a little piece of him he'd wish he could forget.
His skin is worn like parchment,
as he wishes away what he is.
I wish he'd never change himself,
but hes the only one who did.
I traced his skin in circles,
and left salt on his wrists.
This part of him couldn't be,
he didn't want any of this.
The slender of his jaw was cracked,
and his fingertips were crooked.
None of this had hardly mattered
when he was soft and warm and less rugged.
I left him wrapped in leather,
on his bed, alone in the dark.
I couldn't prevent his horridness,
from claiming himself as it's own.
He said I was the Sun;
I was warm and bright,
and brought new life.
I hoped I brought him back.
But his eyes had sunk like anchors,
and his lips were small and numb.
And when he laughed the stale was gone,
and breath was left instead.
I watched him fade like a photograph,
and I washed away the stains.
But, alas, I couldn't help him;
I couldn't take away the pain.