You.

Sometimes thoughts fall in my mind and knock me off my feet and I'm afraid that one day I will not be able to lay bricks around my legs and build myself back up again.

We used to walk in the woods behind your house just to see that the world still existed outside all of the spiralling shit around us; 

I'm starting to doubt that it does.

You would read to me on Thursday afternoons as we curled up on Sigmund Freud's red couch.

I liked certain lines in books for a reason I could not put into words and you would oblige when I asked you to read them over and over again and kiss them into my skin until they became a part of the blood in my veins.

We're both ugly fuckers but you're a good personwith good taste in music and coffee and art and people and films and flowers and tea and afternoon sex. 

You'd take me to mueseums on Sunday mornings when it was silent and empty so I could think, and stare vacuously at the canvas, and burst into tears.

When your hands touched my skin it burned like acid. Your body felt like cocaine to my lips and your soul made me someone else.

You'd trace constellations between my freckles and write quotes on the back of my hand when I was having trouble with reality.

You knew how to talk to me when storms were brewing inside my head and you knew that I enjoyed my drinks and liked the smoke that clung to your stained white t-shirts.

And I loved you, but we were always art, and art was never beautiful, art was emotional, and we were masterpieces of understatement.

 

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