She misses him.
Every day, every hour upon the hour, she thinks of him,
his eyes; the encapsulating orbs that draw her in,
his voice; the symphony to her ears that she longs to lull her to sleep,
his hands; rough, calloused, but ever so strong. A clay model of his soul.
Every day, every hour upon the hour, she yearns for him.
The way he leads her hand into his, setting her nerves ablaze with mere pleasantries,
The smile he sets upon his face, bringing rise to the very clone present in her teeth, as she gleams with delight,
He smiles at her, and she breaks, for she feels that soon enough he will find the dullness of her eyes that she so desperately hides.
Every day, every hour upon the hour, she cries for him,
Her heart bleeding with thin red lines, and the very same markings that kiss her cheeks, and her wrists, she hides from him,
The hinges of her heart, rusted from the tears that flow in her eyes, into her mind, and he won’t see them, and he might as well be blind.
Every day, every hour upon the hour, she hides from him,
The beating ache that comes with loving every ounce of his being, fire burning its way through her heart as she excuses it for love,
And the madness that consumes her, and that that earns her prosecution, for remorse for her brashness has bled out of her body, and attention to a beating life is no more within her.
For that seething fire has left her hollow,
And he has crawled into the space in her chest,
All because she misses him.
Because blinded, she wants him to see,
To notice that her hair is a shade lighter than it was yesterday,
And her teeth are three more in a grin than usual,
And her eyes are beaming violent red, no longer placid yellow,
And she, a broken skeleton laced in dust, still holds a heart beating only for him.
And yes, he misses her.