in the morning she was pleasant and her friend (the man who constantly spent the night at her house) would sing her praise while she cooked his eggs. Loving her in the morning was easy- her smile came so quickly all he had to do was say good morning. Then night would come, and the tired aching feeling crept in around midnight. When the city lights knocked like prisoners on the windows. So she hid under the covers of her bed,  crying for her friend to save her from the ghosts in her closet or the devil nipping from the bottom of her bed.  He would come quickly, to pet her hand and kiss her cheeks, her nose, her lips, her ears, her eyes.  He'd hold her shaking hands until she fell asleep, and in the morning he would love her differently than he does at night, he will watch her beaming smile, his jokes causing an infectious laughter to jump through both of them. In the morning she was pleasant, and in the morning he is hopeful.

( So our life, my dead, is never ending! )