She was the only one I trusted enough to let hold my hand,
hers wasn't as soft as mine, but I liked how long her nails were,
and the color of her nail polish, which I can't remember,
it's always changing anyway.
I hated it when she cried, but I loved it too.
The way her lips would almost curl up,
teasing you with the taste of her beautiful smile.
Her tears made her eyes flash from light to dark so fast that they would glow.
Her eye's a rich, dark chocolate, would melt into a moist gold and I
swear you could see the universe unfold in them.

She is the light that casts my shadow,
and the darkness that blends it into nothing.
Stripping my soul from bones and flesh.
I bend into her as she makes room by removing time and replacing the space between sight and sound.
The warmth in her red-stained lips, long socks, and tight skirts,
force me to smile as I walk alone, knowing that I'm the other half of
something.
Her colors make me scream a thousand times, until my throat gets
clogged with her contrast
and the inner-lining candy-coated things I
want to say dissolve with a down pour of tears
from the phrases that she pukes into my mouth for me to swallow,
and digest.  
Like a mother bird to it's baby.
She's often like a mother, the way she holds me,
the way she pushes me out of the nest
knowing I'm afraid of heights,
knowing that I'll fly anyway,
knowing I'm terrified of myself.

Trust is hard to come by alone in my room,
imagine my surprise in the amount that she would wrap me in,
imagine my surprise when she held me:
and wouldn't let go.

She fell in love and we visited his home together.
His bachelor apartment revealed his artistic interests
and his tendency toward a monkish life.
It made me tired, and hungry.
She slept beside me that night,
barely understanding what he was thinking through the walls.
I imagined her trying to feel his arms around her,
instead of the humid air and scratchy sheets.

I wished that my hair had less dirt
and that I could be the one whose
thoughts were blocked by concrete and wood,
and not a swollen tongue.

It's been a long time since then.
I give my cat milk instead of water,
I sleep with blue blankets instead of skin
and I keep my pajamas on.

My phone calls are lot dirtier than I'd like them to be,
and my heartbeat can't reach farther than my vision.
Now she cries for reasons I'll never know,
and I hate it.
It scares me that I can't dry them with my back turned,
and that she lives too close for letters.
I can only hope  that she'll stay long enough to be my winter skin,
and so that I can be hers,
because I know without each other we'll both freeze to death.

My heart needs you,
and my soul needs you,
like a stomach needs food,
or a suicidal man needs morphine,
or a child needs a friend,
or lips need the burn of a yes
or the freeze of a no:
I need you.

I only say that because I love you more than I love myself,
and that's saying something.