There was this salty-eyed girl once, and she gave a wire-haired dead boy life.
She didn't mind being his so much anymore, almost took comfort in it. She was becoming used to the way the marble of the underground felt against her bare feet, cooling almost like sand. She guesses that it is sort of nice, the way he'd cross sea and sky for her sake. A sort of devotion for her that goes deep into his being.
Persephone knows that people will tell stories about them later on. They'll tell it to others, and the way things were will no doubt be changed along the way. Little things, maybe. Or big things, but you can't care what people will think of it. Things aren't so black and white as they'll tell it, life is more complicated than that.
He isn't quite so thin as before, he has more physical substance, there is more of him to touch (and they do touch) Even still, he is as pale as ever. Her deadened blue vein prince, cold and hopeless but hers all the same.
He tells her how white light is a prism that contains all the other colors, and that black is the absence of color. Some people say that because of this they aren't real colors. And he says that absence and fullness are sort of the same thing. That they are the same.
And they glow. Like everlasting poison gas stars. They exist as the bane and lifeblood of each other.
And there is hope.