She lived each day as if she was dying;
Then she met a boy who woke her.
They talked all day and each night,
Falling asleep with each other’s words,
In their hands.
Life went from scrawled crayon,
To layered oil painting,
They fought and made-up,
She held his hand,
As he cried over girls,
Over his demons.
She gave him chinks of light in the dark,
Which grew with each touch.
He was her muse,
Giving her back herself in her words.
Now she lives each day as if she’s dying;