Night. 

Her fingers trace galaxies across his bare skin, 

her hair is silk, 

and he feels her warmth, curled into the arc of his body.  

Don't let me wake don't let me wake don't let me wake. 

She is falling, falling, falling--

and he wakes before impact. 

He always does. 

The bed is cold beside him, and he rolls out, 

stumbles barefoot and shirtless outside, 

places death between his teeth, and blows smoke into the morning air. 

He does not think her name. 

Midday. 

It's cloudy, almost dark, and he's tired. 

So tired. 

"It's been three years," they tell him. 

"It's time to move on."

But she is still falling, falling, falling, 

and he cannot reach her. 

There is no moving on from this. 

Today is the day he follows her, 

the day he goes to the cliff where she fell. 

"It was an accident," they tell him. 

"She was here alone during the storm." 

She is still falling, falling, falling, 

and he is too late. 

He stays until it storms. 

Stays until he is soaking wet and the sea beneath the cliff shouts his name. 

He thinks of taking one small step. 

He thinks of falling. 

She is there suddenly, her fingers on his skin writing constellations, 

her silk hair cascading over him, 

her warmth seeping into his cold body. 

And now he is falling, falling, falling, 

and it feels like coming home but--

He wakes before impact. 

He always does. 

The bed is cold beside him, and morning light seeps through the window. 

Lux.