Some days she folds into herself away from the world but mostly away from me (me who isn't him, Mr. Goddamn Superman) only aware of the sheet that covers her and the words she whispers, Clark, Clark, where did you go, my superman.
The first time (which happened months ago on a day full of red and blue) my yells of rage could be heard around the globe (and of course he could hear) but now all I do is move my feet to the door and wait until she comes to, whispering her many sorrys.
I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it, her words never seem to calm me, no all they do is bring out the voice that echoes yes you do, yes you do, you still love him more then me, more the me.
"Of course you didn't, Lana."
Me, Oliver Queen, the one that stayed to push away her tears (the one that kisses her to sleep and loves her not Lois Lane or anyone else.) not him, I should be her superman (in my green cape) not him.
"I love you."
Her words (words that should mean the world to me but now mean nothing) come out from numb lips, saying those three little words not to me but to him, him who of course can hear her.
"Of course you do."