Waiting for me with a steaming tea. Warm eyes, shy smile, dark hair, strong character. Or so he said.
Holding my hand with reassuring words. Numbness melted away to hope. I submitted to trust.
We laughed, we shared, we planned. I awoke to his warmth. He borrowed my story.
He reappeared in the form of pictures, memories, nightmares. I cannot escape, but I write.
Once I saw him and his eyes flickered blue as he stared at me. I wondered if I would awaken one day to him killing me.
I write. Poison is not always physical.
Write little girl, for ye know not when death’s final grip shall drag you to her cold, final den.