She was confident,
like she knew the cylinders
were empty in her game
of Russian roulette.
But he imagined
all six cylinders were loaded
when he was willing
to do anything for her.
Anything at all.
Survival was a self-portrait
she painted very well,
power a tune she hummed,
self-assurance her prose.
His life was prophecy
of happiness rotting
like bananas too long
in the heat of despair,
green turned to brown.
She will ever persevere
along her path to the light,
casting aside shadows,
people, friends, lovers.
He, too, will persevere,
go the full distance with her
always willing
to do anything for her.
Anything at all.