It's been months since she saw him, but his soul still dances through her blood. In every dead gray sky, his eyes light up her world again. The golden morning light on a dirty newspaper is the color of his hair. People on the sidewalk, smiling and laughing and crying as they hurry over pavement as broken as she is, are just misspelled shadows of him. Dominique tries to forget, but who can forget the sun?
There's a little kid having a birthday on a balcony, a bunch of red balloons tethered to his chair. They remind her of his tongue, that time she gave him a muggle lollipop and he claimed it was sickeningly sweet but he finished it anyways and his mouth was stained as bright as this random kid's birthday.
Their future was just as bright, once. Stars in his eyes, fireworks in hers, dreams like ribbons woven through their fingers. A glass of sparkling white wine raised to a sparkling golden future.
She doesn't drink wine, anymore. Cheap booze is soaked into her sweaters and sheets and soul. Her eyes shine with desperation and not dreams, but her pillow is dry. Her tears ran out long ago.
(Dominique's done trying.)