To Shatter

She lays over the linen sheets, skin bare and shivering. The sun will rise soon enough, shedding light over the redness of her eyes, the swell of her cheeks, the nail marks on her arms. The window is open, but she's oblivious to the insects that made their way in during the night. They keep their distance, almost as if declaring their respect to her sorrow. It's five past five in the morning.
He's hundreds of miles away, staring through his bedroom window on the other side of the street. He can't see her through the darkness, but if he closes his eyes she's shivering at his fingertips, of need instead of cold. The thought almost sends his hand flying to the bulge on his briefs, but the iron hand that grips his heart is faster than his own.
He said he'd come. They both knew he wouldn't.
There could be no silence more deafening than the stillness of dawn.