She knew of his wicked tendencies.
How he had this need to live on the edge
and never quite contentedly.

She could see all the ways he tried to mask his pain.
She felt in her soul, they were very different,
but some how one and the same.

What he was to her was a midnight of casted shadows.
She didn't know if there was a heart or if he was a man that was all hallow.

The heartache that fell on anyone that was  brave enough to love him.  Taking heart beats, never looking back, doing what he was best at, running.

Yet, the world without him in it brought a sharp pang of loneliness. Her mind a constant conjure of images, their words, his voice, not able to forget it.

That mind fuck of wanting him to be visible and invisible all at the same time. Searching for the version of him she wanted, but never could say, "he's mine."