i could say you were brown eyes and coffee,
that you were both oceans of happiness and tsunamis of pain
i could say that you had the best taste in music
and the worst taste in people;
but then I would only be telling the novel-like trauma
that comes with loving you

so instead i will paint the image of dark sunsets
and black and white vinyls onto paper;
i will take photographs of unopened cigarette boxes
and spilled coffee tables, i will record the sound of roaring
laughter and terribly loud sobs
and then i will put it all together so that i can
accurately describe you

you with the boyish smile and the terrible
french accents, you with the curly hair and the
bad impersonations, you with the most beautiful mind
and my heart

it's ironic actually, how i use you as my safety net
like my grandma does her rosary;
although i doubt her rosary is killing her
like you are killing me