She was smoking one pale cigarette and her devil lips couldn’t see she was bargaining death, but the hipbones on which she relied had long been abandoned, and now, instead of tall roman pillars, she had wooden sticks, ready for the long winter ahead. I don’t think I ever told her how much I wanted to be like her; she didn’t tell me she wanted to stay as herself.
When the board game was over she climbed the stairs up to the attic, and told me not to follow. The slash on her lower back seemed to glow and I thought about touching it. We fell asleep under the same sky, but I think she stayed up until the sunrise.
Art had always been close to my heart; shadows give detail and explanation. My lovely, I didn’t like the shades under your sullen, dour eyes.
Her mind was a never ending storm; one day she would tell me she loved me under layers and layers of protection and sanity. The next day she came back with bite marks on her neck that I hadn’t given her, because as I recall, she was a work of art and no damage could be done to her.
Why’d you let others mark you then?
Where my lips rushing through the piece every morning when I kissed you?
Where my lips too rough on your porcelain skin?
When you came crying that night, and the tears fell in between the spaces of your collarbones, was my kiss more of an anchor?
Her fingers were never ending, and she told me when she was ten she played the piano. I don’t think I ever heard her play once, even after I bought her the tiny Casio that is now next to my closet.
When she told me she recognized the face of sadness and misery, I cradled my own body and told myself she didn’t know what she was talking about. I don’t miss her, but I do and I can’t, but I will. It is past midnight, and I wonder where she is. This winter is killing me and, I guess you know why. 
Whenever I can’t sleep at night I tend to go to the gas station out front and drown myself in those mini donuts she used to love. It is one of those nights and I find myself walking the pavement, staring at a young girl with broken eyes. She has dirty blonde hair; hips strong and proud. Last time I talked to someone just like that, I found you. I found happiness.
You killed yourself in between my hugs and my pain. Where are you?