Stolen Breath

She's sitting on my doorstep. She doesn't have a name.
But she breathes and she cries and she bleeds, just the same.
She is whispering softly to the moon, her pale hands
outstretched, reaching and grasping the sky in broken pieces.

I am sitting on my doorstep. I don't have a name, not anymore.
But I breathe and I cry and I bleed, just the same.
I am whispering softly to the sun, my browned hands outstretched,
reaching and grasping the stained and shattered sky in pieces.

She is sitting in the middle of the road now. Invisible cars
fly by her, not daring to touch those beautiful bruises,
un-willing to break the bubble she has placed herself in.
She is talking loudly now, her voice making the world shake.

I am sitting in the middle of the road now. Infinite amounts of
withering roses scattered about as the cars fly by. I don't dare
touch these beautiful bruises, purple and bloody against bleached
bones that never felt. Un-willing to break the cage that holds me.

I am screaming now, my voice rising and falling in crescendos
that have lost their meanings in the middle of twilight.

She is crying now, her mouth a bleeding slit against the
white darkness. Freedom isn't free, she cries. Love is never
true. And we all die before our time, with nothing left to do.

She is lying in the middle of the cemetery. Her clothes left
behind in her agony. She is pure white, blanched bones
scattered about her, against the black earth. She is dying,
trying to flee that mortal frame. Let the crimson fall, translucent
against the emerald greens.

I am crying now, my mouth a sharp knife against the wound
of these skies. Freedom isn't free, I echo. Love is never true.
And we all die before our time, with nothing left to do.
I am lying next to her, we are stark ivory against bloody earth.

The bones seem to sing a haunting lullaby as we close our
eyes against the birth of the moon to a barren sky. We clasp
our hands together. Promising to hold on, no matter what may come.

No matter what may tear us apart. She vanishes from my heart,
not even a whisper of her soul left behind to caress the loneliness.
And we are miles apart, standing a hand's breath from one another.

She in her dying womb, I in my empty grave. Grasp the silence
with bloody hands, take what is given and leave what is not.

I am alone again. Sitting on my doorstep with only these tremulous
memories.