She, He, and They

She is broken, and I fix her. She is a maze, and I navigate her. She is a question, and I am the answer. Without me, she'd be alone. Without me, she'd crash.
Without me, she'd cease to exist.
I love her for wanting, and I lust for her for needing.
When she asks of me, I give. When she desires, I sacrifice. When she yearns, I yeild.
I don't care if she loves me.
She's like a drug. She's like cocaine. She's like ecstacy. She's like candy, and my sweet tooth never dies.
Heaven is with her, and Hell is without her.
I wish she'd love me.
I am broken, and she fixes me. I am a maze, and she navigates me. I am a question, and she is the answer. Without her, I'd be alone. Without her, I'd crash.
Without her, I'd cease to exist.

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He speaks the language of the flying pigs. It is the language of dreamers, of see-ers, of soul seekers.
He's a steady translator, a smooth operator. He has a glint in his eyes. He has a smile on his face and a thorn in his heart.
What is the sparkle for? Why are you smiling?
I want to be happy. In his arms, I am, only for a moment, a stitch in time.
I pull and push, and he sways like a nimble tree against the wind. He will not fail. He will not bend or break. But, will he uproot himself and flee?
I wish I could love him more.

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They sat at the playground. One swing for her, one for him. He barely swung, keeping his feet planted on the ground so that he may sway beside her. She was immobile, stationary as stone.
Nomally, the playground was filled with children--boys with their shorts way above their waistline and askew, girls dressed in pink, purple, or green as if their mothers had decided they were tiny dolls rather than children. But, the sun had just risen, painting an orange film over every surface.
She stared toward the sunrise with a blank face. He stared at her. Her lip was swollen. Her forehead was bleeding, and there were other injures physical and otherwise. Still, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever set his eyes upon.
He coughed, mostly to make sure that he could actually make a sound in such silence rather than to clear his throat. "We've got to go to the hospital now."
She didn't move.
"I'll stay will you the whole time. I swear, I'll never leave your side." He moved his hand toward hers, and she shuttered. "I swear it." He move his hand more slowly toward hers. This time, she let him touch her. "Okay?"
She nodded without making eye contact.
He lead her to the car.

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I'll kill him if I ever see him again.
It was only her plea that stopped me this time.
I'll kill him, I swear.

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I follow my fellow speaker of the flying pigs. I feel nothing.
I cannot see the colors of the sunrise; I see only gray. I feel nothing as he touches me. I smell nothing. Nothing is beautiful. Nothing is ugly. Everything just is.

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He stays beside her. He never leaves. He speaks in a secret language and recites poems in their native tongue that tickle her ears, that keep her clutching his hand.
Nurses weave them into one room and then into another, hiding them behind curtains and sitting them on hospital beds. They examine her in places he would he had not dared to touch, in places that he once quivered to be near. The take picture of her from head to toe that would have counted as pornography under different condictions. They try to answer questions proposed by the police, but he has to answer as she can't seem to find the strength to speak. She nods or shakes her head at the yes or no questions.
He knows they suspect him. They want to speak to her, take her asside, but she only clings closer at every pull.