Departures are not meant to be happy affairs.
(She fears sleeping, avoids it when she can, but it always finds her, bringing with it a twisted game of cat and mouse that she can't escape no matter how fast she runs.)
They are new beginnings, a breaking-off of old ties to embrace the new.
(She is alone.)
But with each sleep that passes, she hurts the more, wanting to carve out her insides if it means the lack of feeling. Numb. Empty.
(There is a sky drenched in light, brilliant silhouettes dancing about the crumbling stonework and ever-entombing silence, flitting and taunting, entreating her join us, join us. She does not submit.)
No respite from this, a ruin of her own making. No forgetting, no turning back. No more sweet dreams, good mornings.
(She is still wildly beautiful, or perhaps beautifully wild. Her hands on her skin, her lips in her hair and a cruel whisper spoken with the smile of a fallen angel.)
Her cheeks are chill and damp, hands reaching out into the dark, grasping and coming away with nothing. It hurts.
(It's your fault.)
She hugs her knees to her chest and waits for something to save her from the dark.
(I know.)
The sun will not rise for a while.