He was a walking disaster, and so was i. But he wrote novels and i wrote poetry. He liked whiskey and i liked the sweet taste of wine. But he smelt like cinnamon and i smelt more like tobacco. He always told me he didn’t like when i smoked, and i always told him i didn’t like when he ran away. But he liked the way it looked when the smoke poured out of my mouth. He said it reminds him of how broken we both were. I liked how whenever i was sad he would take me out back and make me look at the stars, it would always determine how suicidal we both were. Then whenever i called he would always answer. But he stuttered instead of spoke, and his voice was always shaky, just like my hands. Whenever he had a few drinks in him, and i had a few in me, it wasn’t easy to resist his lust. I always questioned whether or not i loved him, but he never questioned his love for me. I adored his complication, his misery, how mysterious he always felt to me. And i guess he adored my mental breakdowns, when i would call him and tell him i needed him, and to come get me. I was absolutely in love with the way he would always try to cook, his facial expressions, his love for silly things and the chili pepper tattoo on the back of his right leg, and he was in love with the scars that covered my body from head to toe, and the cigarette burns on my wrists. He was art, and i was a broken picture frame. I was trouble, and he wanted to be. I always shrugged him off for idiots that liked to hit me, kick me, break my heart and my ribcage all at once, but he was never angry. He picked me up off the ground and dusted me off. He still loved me. And i didn’t think i loved him until i realized he is me. He is everything good and bad for a person, a healthy mix of the two. We are art, and whether its whiskey or wine, novels or poetry, you can always paint a picture for me, and i will always answer the phone for you.
A poem about someone i thought i didn’t love (via burgundywhine)