She was a trench filled with sadness. The kind of trench that can’t be drained. Where would all that sadness go? And him, the wrecking ball to her bold, firm, brick built upon brick. She build it up, he tear it down. Her castle, her fortress, her mind.
She was a sailing ship, and him, he was the entire sea, begging at her keel. Searching for the weakest point to flood her. And if she wasn’t built exactly as she was, if each aged, splintered piece of wood wasn’t placed with precision, he wouldn’t hold her up at all; he’d swallow her whole.
She was the eye of the storm, calm while his unforgiving winds whipped around her, containing her; threatening her peace as he fought to get in.
And when all the fuel was burned, and the angry seas died down, and after the wind stopped throwing its weight, he became her phantom limb. She was leaning on something that could break, and when it did, she lost her legging and came toppling down.