hold on till morning

The skies are black with lead-filled rain
a morbid painting on display

The following night finds her here. Alone, as she must grow accustomed to now. Atlas was not the first to have been torn from her soul, but it is a pain that does not grow easier with repetition. She sits on the beach as the sun begins to sink, watching as it bleeds the ocean into wine-stained hues as crimson taints the cloud dotted sky. Long blonde hair drifts idle and limp in the wind, linen skirt fluttering halfheartedly across the sand in turn. She paints a lonely figure, almost mythical in her solitude.

There are no tears. Even alone, there is no indulgence. It is not her way. Instead, she watches the sun glide in slow dying trajectory across the horizon, and wraps her arms around her knees like a child. There is nothing left but this.

This is the night that young love died
Buried at each others sides