I looked down at her battered eyelids, closed carefully over sun-worn eyes. Deep in a restless slumber she remained enclosed in her own unconsciousness as I reached out a cool hand to caress the silk of her hair with reverent fingers.
The brush of her lips on my own, a soft, husky call of her name, nothing seemed to rouse her. She was a sleeping beauty, despite her body's disrepair.
Slowly I swallowed gazing out into the thickening black of the sky. I was reluctant to leave her, partly selfish as I craved her body heat to use as my own, partly selfless, desperate to protect her as she lay in helplessness.
Hours would pass before the sun rose it's ugly head once more but I took comfort in the knowledge that it would rise again, for her, because of her.
Tears - unclouded by grief - slipped from her dark tinted eyes, sliding smoothly over damaged skin. Skin she gave to me, skin I can't repair. The pain she felt was mirrored on my face, but not by sobs, I never earned the right to cry over her. She doesn't deserve to be honoured by self-indulgent tears and pain.
Shallow hurts covered her hands and face and neck, echoing her quiet, shallow breathing. I hadn't taken a breath since I saw her; scared to steal the air from her, on some absurd level I thought she needed it all, needed it at all. I had listened to her breathe a thousand times before, maybe more, but as the air wheezed between cracked lips in jolts and broken sighs it sounded like my favourite symphony - played out of tune.
I was terrified, lost somewhere between rage and questions. Bleeding skin trailed over bruising as she changed her colour like a chameleon, slowly losing time. Crimson streaked her sun drenched hair, dried and crumbling, I had tried to get it out, so as my only sunshine would no longer be tarnished by herself, but it was dried in. Over her face, in her hair, under her fingernails, they'd wasted no patch of skin. The substance, which had cleansed my veins, was slipping from hers. And I was terrified that there was nothing left to fight, that soon there would be nothing left to fight for.
I'd like to think she fought inside, to open up those tired eyes and see the world one last time. To realise that it was worth the fight, to breathe in deeply and finally decide to live, to let herself be loved. But honestly I'll never think she did. Nothing hurt me more, nothing ever will. Eyelids so thin - unused from a life lacking rest - that I could almost see right through to vacant hazel. Fingers long since dyed a rusty scarlet, curled into fists, half in habit, half in pain.
She always had this noisy air about her, she made my blood scream - borrowed as it was - when I drank from her I could have been deafened by the noise the buzz. Now, she was so silent. Her whole body quiet like her blood - her heart - had gone to sleep.
I had never noticed how much I thrived on her noise, her harmonic hum, the accompaniment to her breathing. I watched breathlessly as she breathed a raspy concerto. But there was no piano, no accompaniment, just a fragile resonation. The air left in her lungs.
It was then that everything became very still, her breathing was stilted and I reached out with worried hands, but where to put them? With so many tears in someone's soul how can you comfort only a single part? That was always the problem with her, there was so much pain I could never find a way to take it all away. The thoughts behind her eyes faded down and warmth evaporated from her skin, mimicking the cold within. Then, quiet rest became her and laid her life aside.
The brush of her lips on my own, a soft, husky call of her name, nothing seemed to rouse her. She was a sleeping beauty, despite her body's disrepair.
Slowly I swallowed gazing out into the thickening black of the sky. I was reluctant to leave her, partly selfish as I craved her body heat to use as my own, partly selfless, desperate to protect her as she lay in helplessness.
Hours would pass before the sun rose it's ugly head once more but I took comfort in the knowledge that it would rise again, for her, because of her.
Tears - unclouded by grief - slipped from her dark tinted eyes, sliding smoothly over damaged skin. Skin she gave to me, skin I can't repair. The pain she felt was mirrored on my face, but not by sobs, I never earned the right to cry over her. She doesn't deserve to be honoured by self-indulgent tears and pain.
Shallow hurts covered her hands and face and neck, echoing her quiet, shallow breathing. I hadn't taken a breath since I saw her; scared to steal the air from her, on some absurd level I thought she needed it all, needed it at all. I had listened to her breathe a thousand times before, maybe more, but as the air wheezed between cracked lips in jolts and broken sighs it sounded like my favourite symphony - played out of tune.
I was terrified, lost somewhere between rage and questions. Bleeding skin trailed over bruising as she changed her colour like a chameleon, slowly losing time. Crimson streaked her sun drenched hair, dried and crumbling, I had tried to get it out, so as my only sunshine would no longer be tarnished by herself, but it was dried in. Over her face, in her hair, under her fingernails, they'd wasted no patch of skin. The substance, which had cleansed my veins, was slipping from hers. And I was terrified that there was nothing left to fight, that soon there would be nothing left to fight for.
I'd like to think she fought inside, to open up those tired eyes and see the world one last time. To realise that it was worth the fight, to breathe in deeply and finally decide to live, to let herself be loved. But honestly I'll never think she did. Nothing hurt me more, nothing ever will. Eyelids so thin - unused from a life lacking rest - that I could almost see right through to vacant hazel. Fingers long since dyed a rusty scarlet, curled into fists, half in habit, half in pain.
She always had this noisy air about her, she made my blood scream - borrowed as it was - when I drank from her I could have been deafened by the noise the buzz. Now, she was so silent. Her whole body quiet like her blood - her heart - had gone to sleep.
I had never noticed how much I thrived on her noise, her harmonic hum, the accompaniment to her breathing. I watched breathlessly as she breathed a raspy concerto. But there was no piano, no accompaniment, just a fragile resonation. The air left in her lungs.
It was then that everything became very still, her breathing was stilted and I reached out with worried hands, but where to put them? With so many tears in someone's soul how can you comfort only a single part? That was always the problem with her, there was so much pain I could never find a way to take it all away. The thoughts behind her eyes faded down and warmth evaporated from her skin, mimicking the cold within. Then, quiet rest became her and laid her life aside.