It was for you.
All that I am, ever was, was created for you.
My breath, my pulse, the bones on my two rotting feet were for you.
Only you.
My teared eyes never rotated in their sockets because they were so fixated on you, the being of beauty.
The one of life.
My exile.
I made the stars shine brighter with your smile.
I made the heavens weep when your last tear fell onto the quaking grounds.
I made the roses bleed their color and turn black when your chest stopped gently moving.
It was for you.
All of it.
The earth turned and rotated when you walked its lands because I willed it to.
And when you finally stopped moving gracefully, its engines gave out and faltered, never to revive again.
And neither did I.
When you finally lifted from this place and left for your own, I ended my own engines.
They, too, heaved and shuddered to a halt.
Everything that I ever was, was created for you.
My exile.
My other half.
And as I sit disengaged to these rotting lands and this rotting corpse, I continue to slightly, gently, barely, wait to meet again.