There's something so fundamentally romantic about a broken man
or should I simply say, "I dig that!"?
A man tormented by the demons of a shattered childhood, or
a shattered heart on which a pair of expensive pencil heels, the shiny black kind with a blood red sole, has stomped all over.
Or maybe shaken to the core from the long cold nights and
scorching days spent at a military base with gun fires and screams
ringing in his ears even after all these years.
I long to hold him,
as he twists, mourns and shivers through the nightmares,
I want mine to be the only embrace that makes them all go away.
When those scars hurt, or the injury from the practice session
is not as unbearable as the fear of not being able to play again,
I just want to hold his hands as they grip mine so tight,
almost in an attempt to transfer the pain.
When that fever is burning so high he's going in and out of reality
with a wet cloth on his forehead all bundled up and drugged, I want
my name to be the only thing he calls out.
Every now and then when he breaks down in the shower crying
his heart out, or explodes with vengeance in his eyes ready to hit,
destroy or ****, I want
my palm pressed against his heart to make the storm pass.
When he becomes unsteady and slurry, with the smell of Whiskey
overriding the aftershave, I want to be the one to take him home
and tuck him into bed.
I want to know, see, hear and feel all his pain, his fears, his
darkest moments and be the remedy, his only escape.
I don't want to fix him. Or change him. Or save him.
I want to be his lifeline, his anchor to the mortal world, and
rope ladder to heaven.