Pneumonia Black

We used to sit at the little junction between Sunset and the 101 for hours. Eyes red. Hers by chemicals, mine by tears. We sat in silence. (Speaking would only be like opening up a bird's chest to show it's heart, when all you really need knowing is that it's alive. I mean. We could both hear it. The flustering tickticktack - an unmistakable promise about tomorrow.)
Now I'm there… in that vast lonely space after the war, and all I can do is sigh. Enemy dead. But I guess this is exactly the desolate quiety that birdheart had been bleeding 4 it's whole life.

One of the nights she suddenly got up. Before I could reach her she ran straight into the traffic. A dark electron between flashing lights and the screaming cars and then everything stopped except 4 her legs.
My heart floated in the sounds. Screaming tyres and inflated lunges, and I knew that if something happened to her, I would die as well and then, as by magic, she was on the other side. Grinning happily and waivin.

Later that evening at the Perro Del Mar (the only place who would let us in) I forced her to vow that if she ever did something like that she must bring me with her and then, outside the pub, in the neon lights and fog, I kissed her for the first time and she said "I promise white one"

Black, my Achilles, where ARE u?