Today, I look at the stars and I see him.
My Spike.
My William.
Today, I look at the stars and I see them.
Her, the slayer, sitting on her throne.
Pretty throne, made of ashes.
Ashes made of those who walked the night.
He, my Spike, my William, sitting at her feet, on a leash.
Not a leash, but a chain.
Cold metal chain from his throat to her hand.
My Spike.
My William.
His head in her lap,
his heart in his eyes
it sparkles
like
fairy dust.
Looking at her.
Spilling pretty words like my William when his heart still beat.
She sits on her throne made of ashes, reeking of everything good and lovely, and he sits at her feet, stained
by the lovely darkness and
running colours like blood.
She does not hear the pretty words swirling in the air;
pretty fish in
a pond.
Poor William.
He loves the girl.
Ever since he first saw her, so the pixies say.
Even now he loves her; sitting at her feet.
My Spike.
My William.
She turns, she leans
and touches his cheek.
Kisses his lips.
Doesn't mind the stains and
the running colours like blood.
Today, I look at the stars and I see them.
Her, the slayer, sitting on her throne, and him.
Her Spike.
Her William.