He has fed on her stare. Of her smile, too, blossoming from the face, pallid in its ill-like discoloration. Of stare and smile, both. He stays living among wine for his sadness, granting him warmth of vermillion liquid droplets, then to her palms outstretched for his grasp. Of stare and smile that looms, from beneath where he undresses her to be dressed, yet again. A face in so much pain, though keeps itself in the same awe for the observation of what courage he’s achieved.
A fog of his own grief, spilled as uncolored rain from his eyes, growing like dew droplets from the edges of his eyelids. Wishing to the extent of his smile, that the rain can ever be warm, once more. A love that agonizes, washes the hands in the waters that go to beneath his own feet. One solitary love that shelters nothing but the weary form and sobering mind.
To her hair, to which he keeps kempt. Still of its grace in pouring to her neck, where gentle kisses are often laid. These tresses, to him, run in the longest waves, of each strand bringing him closer to the reminiscent vow. A vow to be close, and then, to never depart. To never stand at the edge of the running tides, to then leave.
In pain, he always remains. To the gusts of her open and breathing sighs, in futile sleep, he watches in kindest, though cruelest, silence. Gesturing to his stamping heart, as he does, that the warmth shall return upon when the window that is her mouth, finally shuts.