Ink on your body and my body on your mind. You were exciting, as exciting as you would get me when i became intoxicated on your art and your love for the indians and your **** and the way you smiled like my mind and soul was making you happier than my body. I always said i would never rely on another to create my happiness. But the deeper you came inside my mind the more i needed to know what was really going on in yours. Free, we were free. No we didn't like labels, we said from the beginning. But as time went on i needed to know you were mine because each time i let you in you drove a little piece of my soul out. I knew it, i knew that but i continued to let it happen because every time you broke me down it temporarily built me up. Built me up to believe it was more than two bodies, but two souls. But i kept returning because i loved to trace the roses on those shoulders of yours, i wanted to say hello to the indians on your thigh and read the words on your back. And in between you would draw me roses and tell me sweet little lies and buy me a pipe to use with each other in parks to watch the sky spin and twirl like the times we'd purposefully have too much to drink. I was drunk off of a whirlwind of new faces, exciting places; your films and stick-shifts and downtown bars and roaming around in cars. But you never bought me roses, we never did anything sentimental. The closest you got to touching my heart was when you touched everything but.