She said he hurt her,
a wound wrapped in soft lullabies,
his voice a serpent
coiling 'round her dreams,
where the green fern forest
breathed secrets into the night,
and moss shrouded the bones
of forgotten civilizations.
In the day,
she fashioned dreams
like delicate glass,
eyes half-closed,
floating through the crowd,
a specter among the living,
while shadows,
like whispered promises,
clung to her skin.
At night,
the seconds drip drop,
heavy as rain on a tin roof,
each tick a heartbeat,
each pause a gasp,
he follows her
as a prayer follows its own
search for grace,
the memory of a violence
that needed no voice,
only the cold embrace
of silence wrapped around her.
In the twilight,
she gathers the frayed edges of her soul,
sifting through the dark
for remnants of light,
for the lullabies
that cradle her in the depths,
reminding her that even in shadows,
the heart learns to beat again,
even in the echo of pain,
there is a flicker,
a stubborn flame.