I met him when he was broken.
His heart was knitted together with strings so fragile.
But he lived as though he had no burden on his shoulders.

He knew death like he knew love.
They were his companions.

I think that's what I love about him.
And what more?
His quietness breached my silence.
His discerning look left me mesmerized.
His touch killed me.
His lips burned me.
He made love to me like he wanted to devour my being.
He loved me in the most brutal way.

But when I had to leave, he looked at me in quiet desperation.
He doesn't understand that it is not I who can fill the void in his soul.