Shh, Honey. Don't Cry Anymore.

She no longer writes. It would only be of him. She sleeps accompanied by nightmares of new lovers, their sordid fantasies. Each morning she picks up the phone and begins to weep. This is weakness. This is strength.

Last night a man with the name of an ex lover and a walk to shame a model passed by windowsills with blood soaked hands. She crawled on her knees, afraid for her life, and she thought to herself “live on your knees pretty. Live on your knees because your love is gone.”

He says "I promise. I can be your everything. I can be your rock. Call me, i'm yours. I'm there." And then he never came. She never asked him to.