He is the murmur of rusted guitar strings,
the cold night wind seeping in from closed windows,
sugar tasted at the tip of the tongue,
and lonely corridors void of light.
He is the rustle of old pages
being flipped, forward and backward,
until the spine of the book falls apart,
the lack of air that makes it hard for her to breathe,
the blood seeping from slits and cuts
on her arm, down and across the road.
He is the bitter aftertaste of regret
stuck in her throat,
the song she wishes to
get out of her head,
the words she should have never said.
Never said.
She is the tide, pushing and pulling
against the moonlit shore,
dark rain clouds painting the sky,
and her tears are the tears of the clouds,
falling at ten meters per second,
a dying butterfly drowning in the storm.
She is lost in the dark caverns of his mind,
she is the girl that made him think that
his monstrous self was not so monstrous.
She is the whisper of nightingales
and dewdrops on grass, glinting
in the afterglow of dying moonlight.
And he would have kissed her if she
wrapped her arms around him
and never let him go.
He still could.
But she let him go.
He let her go.
Graffitied 