His eyes were summer rain, so new and inviting.
But they were speckled with storms,
and soon he looked as damaged as you.
His face, a cocktail of 1 part sunken in and 4 parts tired.
You don't know who he is,
he doesn't know who he is,
and then a stranger is living in your home.
Every mannerism of his multiplied by 12, 7 days a week.
And your avoiding meals,
date nights,
and sleeping in the same bed.
You still love him but you can feel your life being consumed by the tics,
every repetition a crack in cement.
It is still possible to repair a broken sidewalk, let a flower grow from its scars but hes falling deeper with every flick of the light switch or pace of the hall.
x12 x12 x12
You wonder if, like everything else, his heart will break twelve times too.
Or is that the only thing that's safe from his hell.
