That's how it was. She was the faith that kept churches God long forgot. Always dressed in mourning, those shovel-cut heels were the eye's entrance to her profile. Naiveté colored her cheeks, while glasses sophisticated her gaze. Her shadow lay awake as her mind slept, wondering of her fate at the end of days…if she only knew. She wielded the touch of a poem, a savannah to awaken mortal corpses. From handcuffs she took me in. Rage dripped down my hair and all she said was, “My Clyde, one sugar or two?” Her door opened like friendship, scared, I knew then everything prior was fraud. She brought ice for my fists and kissed my forehead, “Tomorrow you reform, aye, Clyde?” Only months apart, we were not the same age. You have to go home, she told me. I had no home. “They'll let you come back,” she believed. But I only believed in her. That's just how it was. Her stroke numbed bleeding knuckles, soothed swollen skin, and lingered on my face and mind. I loved her for all she never asked, just expected. Not all at once she went away. When I tried to tame her, she said, “Oh, my Clyde, look at you now; where would you be without me?” She laughed, knowing. But her petals were clipped and torn while I lived a fool; shoulder-to-shoulder we stood during her fall. She became night and I was still. Now, she's forever gone, and that's just how it is.