He is a gentle sort of love,
irritatingly fragile fingertips trailing down my side and
forehead kisses.
When we lay together,
rib to rib,
souls brushing shoulders,
i almost believe this life is kind.

He is effortless conversations and
sore cheeks from smiling ear to ear.
Sickly sweet messages late at night and
Constant concern.
I try to read between the lines,
Become a part of the dialogue in his mind.
There’s something masochistic that captivates me
entirely.

He is such a soft and messy thing.
I don’t know how to take care of him.
I would help if I could,
But he never tells me whats wrong.
I fumble for his hand in the darkness.
I want to beg him for a hint, but
that pretty little mouth will ruin this moment.

He stares at the ground when he says he loves me.
His name sits heavy on my tongue,
Each symbol rolling backwards,
Choking me a little more.

He closes his eyes and thinks of her,
While his hands explore every ridge of my body.
I am a reflection of all the ways he cannot love me.
I want to kiss the whiskey from his lips,
Kneel at his pedestal
at the foot where I bleed.

I am going to disappoint him.