Mr. Joyce's Perfect Friend

I met a girl who’s breath smelled of august, with eyes like the last summer rain. She cried when I held her bust Then I drank her tears with a glass of champagne. She spoke a sort of stilted lullaby, and sang the screech of lying ‘fine’. She wet her lips and I watched her body die; her cheeks slapped pink, and skin that tasted of wine. She steeled her sobs and emptied her eyes. Now whispers of her footsteps send shivers through my wooden spine.