The running coward

When she closes her eyes she’s out of reach.
She abandons herself into this green sleep,
Hoping for dreams that are made to be missed,
Or another self she could selflessly keep.
Her world is so calm and still down there,
She thought she could bring him, too, but he’d hurt.
He’d be the storm alighting and ruining their pair,
Like the bitter story of a paper cut.
This is no death, no requiem is needed.
He’s just the imperfection of herself - a stitch,
And this poem is the song of the defeated,
For when she closed her eyes, she was out of reach.