She is beautiful. He is leaving poems in her collarbones. They are so deeply, fiercely, wholly, in love with each other. Winter comes, but it doesn’t. Summer leaves, but it stays. They have youth caught in strands of their hair, and the stars still mean something more than flickering lights. They walk down city streets hand in hand, he meets her parents, and they steal glances across the dinner table. Afterwards, he unbuttons her shirt, so gently, and they become each other. When she kisses him, her eyes are in forever. Their lips meet with more miracle than magnetism, and their hearts beat with more purpose than pain. He is pedaling a bicycle towards the moon, the wind in her hair, her arms outstretched like the wings of a gilder plane, the world in their pasts, and they’re going, going,
She’s been gone for three months and seventeen days. They are so broken. The house is an empty echo of their past, and he doesn’t know how to leave. How To Love A Woman plays on repeat and a whiskey kisses his lips with her memory. A cigarette dangles between his fingertips, his finger carrying the echo of what they used to be in a tan line wrapping around his skin. They are so broken. The walls are sterile white, and the floorboard is stained with too many stories his bones don’t have the strength to read again. The T.V blinks on, and his life is just another flickering light that used to be a star.