He was barefoot, and the floor was cold, but he wouldn’t mind.
I’d more than once awaken to him laying next to me wearing nothing but his favorite pair of wool socks.
He’d move through the house with ease, not bothering to turn on the lights.
The house never got very dark anyway. I never liked to close the curtains.
I was never a poet. I was just infatuated with one. The one who every time we kissed, took the best parts of me with him.
I let him have me wholly, consume me wholly and then ran away consuming all of him that he could ever give to anybody.
I let him spoil me with his recurrent presence that eventually lead to significant withdrawl.
I fall short of vocabulary to summarize how I smothered him on my lips, let him slip himself a little deeper each time and how everything around us would explode into a constellation of phosphenes.
He could make me do anything, I could do everything.
I wanted to do him again and again.
I wanted to be around him endlessly.
The world suddenly became an ocean of relentless romance.
How I’d miss the taste of him.
He was warm like a shot of caffeine blooming hot in my veins, reaching every finger tip, numbing my hands.
Together we craved to be persistent, until I decided to walk away.
The love we had transformed into various levels of self destruction.
Our love was like a bundle of burning leaves and needles that hurt.
It was presumptuous and unabashed with no guilt or shame.
I was never a poet.
I was just a pretty face with drug habits.
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