She walks through worlds of dreaming with a heart frayed around the edges, threads unravelling with every step she takes. (But she cannot stop, not when the hounds of hell are on her tail.)

So she will build herself a castle of clouds and starlight, string garlands of spidersilk from the battlements and style herself its queen. (A fortress against the demons lurking in the corners of her mind.)

But its walls are empty, its courtyard bare and a lonely monarch sits upon its throne. (But this, she tells herself, is better than running from something she can never escape, and waits for a saviour from this midnight.)

And in her darkness she can see him reach for her, pictures clusters of galaxies cradled in the palms of his outstretched hands, the light branding swirling patterns of his colours on her skin.

(And none shall come between.)