Only then.

Only if she closed her eyes.

Only then.

Not open, not dark and rich and brown and warm, and chocolate, and falling in love again, and wanting her, and having her, and running his fingers down her spine, and words of no meaning in the curls of her hair and loving her and letting her know it.

If she closed her eyes and rich caramel, on tan, on golden skin turned pale.

Only then.

Only when he couldn’t feel her fingertips on his jaw, blood racing around his veins, her smile catching his breath, his feet wound in hers, her smell on his sheets, and the light in the rich, brown, chocolate eyes.

Only if she closed her eyes.

Only if her chest failed to rise and fall, and she didn’t smile, and hair lay limp on cold biobed grey, and she didn’t grin, and she didn’t smirk, or wipe engineering dirt from her cheek, or shout, or growl the way she did when he touched her, when he ran his hands through her hair and over her soft, delicate, caramel, golden skin.

If she closed rich, brown, chocolate eyes.

Only then.

Not if they were open, and alive, and hurting, and leaving, and sighing, and creasing, and taking make-up, and his kisses on the lids, and the flutter of her lashes and were just...alive.

Not if she lived and took breath, and held colour on soft lips, and words on sharp tongue, and cries from pained throat, and tears from rich, brown, chocolate eyes.

Not if he saw her and smiled, felt her frown in his bones, her pain in his gut, saw the line of her mood and the high of her release, and knew her, and why she was her, and why she let him be him.

Only if she closed her eyes.

Only then.

No more beauty when head rested on working hands, no light when she was tired, woken and smiling, and purple on bronzed skin, and deep blues, the taste of wine and salt on her lips, perfume combed through thick hair.

If she closed her eyes.

And he couldn’t hear her anymore, or listen to her, or feel content to just hold her and stroke soft, downy hair and tell her about cities, and lights, and things he’d done, and places he’d been, and her breath against his neck and warm, chocolate brown eyes falling into an easy sleep. Against him, in his arms, with him.

Only if she closed her eyes, and breathing stopped, and time, and the constants of the universe took their toll, and caramel, on tan, on golden skin turned pale.

Only then.

Only when soft lips closed, and smiles stopped, and grins, and breakfasts in bed, and the inflection of her voice ceased to ring in his ears.

Only when warm, chocolate eyes closed.

Only then, would he truly be dead.