don't offer him alcohol unless you're okay with a broken bottle, because he's faced with the rememberance of all the times his father came home wreaking of disaster and ***** and anger. when you're in the car, steer far from the country music station. he's never liked it, quite frankly he's never liked the radio in general. when you tell him you love him for the first time, and  ****** you will, do it in the safety of his rusty old apartment, preferably in the morning. he's never been a night person. he likes kissing your neck, but don't kiss his back. i never really understood why, i guess i never will. his favorite movie is dead poets society, and everytime he watches it he discovers something new. his favorite color has always been black, and if you ask him for his favorite song you will get a different response every week. if i recall correctly, which i do, he smokes four and a half cigarettes a day. i don't know why he won't let me say five, i guess i never will. he moved to manhattan when he was fifteen years old and pulled from the only mother and father he's ever known. i don't know why i'm writing this. don't tell him i did, and please, oh god please take care of him.

it's a quarter past two in the morning, and i don't feel okay. i'm cleaning out that purse you told me made my eyes look like the sun right before it sets, and i found a receipt from that little old pub where i spilled my ***** all over your jacket while you were on your way to an interview for a job you never showed up to. it's okay, though, because you would have gotten fired anyways after stepping outside to light a cigarette once every twenty three minutes. god, you and those **** cigarettes. remember when i first asked why you smoked? it's okay, you probably don't. in the same scratchy voice i can't get out of my ******* head, you quoted john green, "i smoke to die." that was our second of exactly thirty seven dates. remember our first? it's okay, you probably don't remember that either. we walked from the pub smelling like a weird mixture of alcohol, smoke, and failure, to the nearest subway station and rode for two hours and how ever many minutes it took me to fall in love with you. i don't exactly know where in new york city we ended up, but i sure as hell remember the taxi driver's face when i told him the address of my ****** apartment. in case you don't remember, we didn't have ***. i wish i didn't remember our last date. number thirty seven, like i mentioned earlier. if you remember anything, i hope you remember finally telling me you were in love with me. you've never had such a bold smile on your face, walking out of the seasons 52 you've always told me you'd take me to. i remember exactly the shape of your hand waving goodbye to me, but i can't seem to remember the license plate number of the car that slammed into you the same way our lips used to. i know you don't remember that part, because before the paramedics could ask you what happened, you mumbled the same question through those lips i miss so much. it's okay, though, i made the mistake of asking if you know who i am. you didn't. it's two quarters past two in the morning, and i'm not okay.