He drew elaborately but never nicely.
He drew flowers, cigarettes, and tears.

He drank elaborately but he never cried.
He drank beer but never flavored strawberry.

He collected his empty cigarette packets in his drawer,
like I collected the broken hearts and beaten skeletons of lost lovers in my closet.

In his black car, I looked down at the city lights at night,
while he looked in my eyes.

I let him touch my body and I let him touch my mind,
parts of me no one has ever touched or seen.
He let me delve in the tunnels where he hid his feelings, nightmares and dreams.

I never counted the days.
He took me to a zone of another time.

His upper lip was as scarred as his mind.
His eyebrows were softly arched trails for my thumbs.
His eyes were as dark as he wanted his soul to seem.
The darkness appeared on his skin only in the shape of a black tattoo of a rose that I’ve touched but never kissed.
Perhaps others have seen sparks of the little but strong light deep inside his heart,
but only I felt it with my hands and let it drown me.
Only I felt his warm tears rolling down my own cheeks.

The first time he said he loved me was the last time we talked.
He was in tears and in pieces.
And then he left me peace-less.

He was the only boy I haven’t told about love
even though he was the only person my heart had learned to love.