Inadequacy burned at her heart as realisation swarmed her mind that she wouldn't be able to be his fix.
Painfully insolvable things, words poured out,
a heartache she couldn't ignore.

He was all she had, and years on he found the syrup of true comfort in her to open up, to express, to talk. Her eyes had sweetness bleeding in droplets on her lashes, she couldn't suffice to help him.

An endeavour never once mentioned now patterned the air, thick and grey, damp yet dry to the tongue. To talk about the wood sat in his heart, waiting for ignition. It didn't need fuel, a single match of hope would have fed him with enough light to continue.

It was pain ridden, there was an itch - then a burn - then a gaping wound - all until the torment fled his lips in a flow so consistently dark that silence played the new conversation.

She had given all of herself - love, patience and trust included into the man sobbing onto her shoulder streams so murky she could not find an exit. A way to give closure.

The stinging pain of helplessness was too much for her body, making her heart drop to her ankles and her knees buckle to a shaking nothingness of disappointment.

She had love to give, she had kisses and endless sweet nothings, she had his trust and she held her loyalty to him as her most prized possession.

But she didn't have a match.