When she needed your help standing, you gave her a hand.

Something she latched onto so tightly you thought she had mistaken it for a life preserver.

Sometimes, she thought they were the same thing.

When tears fell on her cheek, you lent her your shoulder, the crook of your neck.

Something she kept on her night stand when that was the only thing next to her.

Sometimes, that’s the only thing she could fall asleep to.

When life left her broken, you showed her your mind, the curves of your soul.

Something that let her see how the world didn’t turn for us, yet we still breathed in the air.

Sometimes, she can still hear your thoughts in her mind.

She still has your taste on her lips.

Something she kissed goodbye before you saw her tears.

Sometimes, she stays awake, staring at her night stand.