She walks down the dark street, lantern in hand.

He’s waiting for her, she needs to hurry.

Her feet quicken, as if they know what's planned.

Quietly, swiftly, rushing, they scurry.

She thought it love, but her heart never soars,

It just wanders, waiting for what's to come.

He aggressively pulls her through the doors,

His razor-sharp belt pricking her sore thumb.

Their love is fragile. Glum. The color blue.

A marionette that severed its strings.

It was waiting to fly but never flew,

Their love is like a white dove with no wings.

Meant to be broken, and not to be saved.

Like a pathway never meant to be paved.