If her feet touched the ground she was still floating.
Her black hair battering the edges of her sculpted face, dark
waves against marble in the wind.
I said hello, she told me she was trying to stop smoking and
that green was her favourite colour.
She asked me who I was and I said I would be her flower; I
would be her sunshine and her happiness; I was no one until I saw her.
I told her I met an angel and she laughed, I smiled, found
joy in her happiness.
I told her the streets were hard and she said she was cold
so I gave her myself to keep warm but she refused to return the favour.
The sadness it brought me went unchallenged, unresolved. And
on clear November nights I howl at the moon because I see her face and star-lit
clips in her liquid black hair and I feel the cold she left me in.
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