You are a certain type of something
You left empty picture frames and broken glass when you disappeared
On Sunday mornings your drowned yourself in liquor and honey, never giving a damn what anyone had to say.
Intimacy to you was a soft spoken poem that you wrote half drunk in the middle of the day.
Dancing around the living room in the middle of the night, singing the words to the song at the top of your lungs
Jesus Christ you're so fucking beautiful
Being with you was like driving right into oncoming traffic.