The last time I remember witnessing her prominence was when she wailed in her palace, with her gloom fractured against the reality for everyone to feel it deep within their cordialities. Her pupils were leaking opaque salted rivers as she nodded her body forth into her locked arms. There was a sense of forlornness every time I saw her.

Despite her intelligent, innocent and beautiful sky-filled eyes having been jeopardised, I still perceived her life shining brighter than any spark, miracle or marvel. But as her back was no longer straight and instead curled up like a rotten hairball, there was something so destituded about her.

She necessitated my help, and nothing would hinder my heart from anything akin. I could hear it harl onto the walls of aether and beyond, screeching and squealing like a wooden wheel. I could feel her gloom enter my bloodstream, infecting me with equal sorrow and despair as her.

Since we separated, my world had been left abandoned by her, filled with dreaded nothingness, now it was being washed and bashed away by her infectious distress like a tempest or a tsunami. It was infiltrating the centre, until I fell into weeping for her, I razed onto the ground clashing my fists into the linings of the pavement. Every single fractured piece of her gloom was tearing down my skyscrapers anew, as if they were hit by a plural of asteroids. I needed to get back to her.

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She was as abandoned as my world, she wasn’t even in her palace anymore, she was vulnerable to the sun. Her forearms were tree trunks; rigid, gapped; striped and unsymmetrical; she had transformed into the unforeseen aghast. Her face was as soft as cotton, curved like sails, innocent as a mouse; it was triumphant to look at. She walked like she was carrying the world on her back, crushed against the earth by everyone’s feet, pushed recalcitrantly by the peasants, even clandestinely talked about. I could tell she wasn’t well, and hasn’t been for aeons, I am traumatised by how poorly they took care of her.

I grabbed an inch of her, which exhibited the true damage done to her once flowerful frame. It was now ripped, distorted even, as if she was disposed of by the Archduke; perceived as the atypical one. She wore a cloak to cover up her discoloured hair, that was once holy hazel, just like an angel’s halo. 

There was no question: I needed to help her, 

protect her, 

save her.