It is at times like this, below the haunting sky full of tears and sorrow, and the umbrella that once held your shadow, that I remember the stars were not gone in the sky, but in your eyes twinkling like the puddles beneath our feet; full of regret that I had not brought the umbrella today.

Oh, she's crying again.

She stutters.
Because there are too many words to say.

She hick-ups.
Because the words were hard to swallow.

She heaves.
Because the pain is too much.

She wipes away her tears.
Because there is no handkerchief or tissue to offer.

She smiles.
Because she learned how to cry many times, before learning to hide.

She limps away.
Because a girl like her had tattoos, painted black and blue.

She comes the next day.
Because there is no other thing to do but expect the same thing.

She's bleeding.
Because writing with a red pen on her arm was a habit of hers before bed, and she loved painting her bed sheets and bathroom floor red.

She heals.
Because getting hurt makes your body do the same thing.

And she cries. Again. And again. And again.
Because it's the same thing all over again.

She stutters.
She hick-ups.
She heaves.
She wipes away her tears.
She smiles.
She limps away.
She comes the next day.
She's bleeding.
She heals.
And she cries again.

And she does the same thing.

She makes my heart weep.

It's so silent, and there is fear.

Is fear an external presence?

Internal?

I am so scared, and that's what I only know.

And the more I listen, the more I am scared of what's there. Of either who I am, or of either what's not there.

I am scared.

Words were only promises worn onto our souls. A desperation when life is tainted with things unknown. Of course, the moon didn't fall for the sun in the horizon, when their gazes met in a minute of a terrible departure.

The sun knew what sacrifices were made when love fell, mimicking the way his lips met the sea and burnt it red like trails of ash on a used bed sheet.

Clouds parted, showing clear skies, and words were met with an expectant goodbye, like the clashing blue and red of the sun and the moon, all over again.

The promise of a better tomorrow was darkened by the night,  lit ablaze by the day, and still, the words were sewn into their souls; bleeding, tearing, and frayed.

Humans cried, animals wept, and nature mourned as days became hours of shifting pain between torn souls, who stared at each other across the sky, weeping, "It's always goodbye."

We build our bridges of starlight
only burnt down by the blazing sun.
But we've just transgressed to night,
where owl wings have come undone.

The rat scuttles past the forest floor,
leaves crunching in their path like the fall,
as some people leave open doors,
when they have no one else to call.

The owl swoops in to take its meal
on four, short weak  legs.
The shadows across her window
shows the two dropping into her bed.

The owl took its meal and ate;
his stomach was now full.
The man had what he wanted to take.
He left a feeling so cold and cruel.

Burning bridges isn't fun
if they can only be seen at night.
They can only be burnt by the sun,
and these were bridges of starlight.