Crimson water

                She tells me she's bleeding. It won't stop bleeding, she says, and then I'm running, my bare feet pending the pavement, my mind praying for a miracle, my heart aching for her.
The five-minute sprint from my house to hers seems to take an eternity or more and when at last I reach her door I throw it open with such force it bounces back on it's hinges and hits my shoulder.
The dull pain or the forming bruise is nothing compared to the one that rips through my soul when I see her, my angel, lying sprawled out of the cold tile of her bathroom floor. She's still wearing her dress, the black one with lace along the bottom, that she wore only hours ago when she hung from my arm, like the mostly beautiful accessory in both heaven and earth.
She still looks striking, even as the blood pulses from the cuts. There are so many all up her arm, the razor blade still clutched in her fragile hand. I fall to my knees in the puddle or crimson water. I press my lips to hers and pull her up to me, cradling her, as though, if I hold her tight enough I can save her.
"Shh," I murmur, as her tears soak my ones neatly pressed shirt, "I'm here now. You're safe. An ambulance is coming, you'll be ok real soon." My own eyes fill with tears as I realize the lie I just told. No one's coming for her, and even if they were they'd be too late.
I hear her draw a near silent breath and whisper the last words ever to leave her perfect lips, "I… love… you, kiss me…one more time?" I do what she wants, what she needs. I kiss her lips over and over again, I kiss her cheeks, her ears, her neck, her arms, her fingertips and with every kiss I tell her how much I love her, how I always will. I kiss her until all her bloods gone, until she's drifted from her body, drifted away from me, I kiss her until she's in a better place and I'm all alone.