The Dragon That Breathes Flowers

You Loved Me When I Hated Myself and You and Life and, Well, You Get the Picture

I always hated how your heavy door slammed on your truck every time I climbed
in to join you. I wish you'd quit the habit of breathing after you finish up a smoke,
which you know I hate. One day that stick will kill you, but don't you think
you're cool? I can still see your smirk when I nagged you about your habit
of changing the station in the middle of my favorite song. There was something about driving
through abandoned back roads intimately in a way that was unlike you. You drank

your coffee and laughed easily with the comfort of open roads ahead, drinking
your caffeine, setting your jaw and I stared anywhere but in your direction
knowing you would never let me get my way, but there was something about driving
in our silence that reminded me of the security your arms once offered. You lit another smoke
just to piss me off. It worked. I remember one summer we had the habit
of making up by sitting by the fire and you'd kiss my forehead and smile. I'd have to think

about why we were fighting in the first place. You had a way of making me rethink
everything I ever said to you, everything I ever did. Beneath a summer night's bonfire
we would drink and toast to endless nights together among the summer breeze developing
the habit of lying. I hated your t-shirts that smelled like sunshine but breathed you in,
relishing in something I thought we had but my eyes get lost in the smoke
of memories. You said you loved me but, hell, you never even let me drive

that precious truck. You said you trusted me, just not particularly my driving.
I said I didn't care, but I lied. You had a way of making me overthink
before I spoke to you. In November my parents died. Well they didn't—but they went up in smoke
after the nasty affair of my father; you held my hand but I felt hollow enabling my drinking
problem when I couldn't cope not knowing how to handle me, acting like I was coated in
porcelain. I wouldn't have broken if you dropped me. But I had a habit

of pretending I could hold myself together by building up walls and you had the habit
of just letting me. In the midst of a storm, my world was driving
me through deserted roads and  I couldn't figure out how to get myself back in
control again. The car was spinning out of my hands, squealing tires made it hard to think
about you. I developed a taste for trashy friends and angry music slipping into a drunken
coma of apathy while dark circles under my eyes grew, my eyes hazy with the smoke

of my future. I hated when your ashy breath vanished since you quit smoking
for me. You would whisper with minty breath everything will be okay. You are strong. You made a habit
of pissing me off with kindness that never quite felt right even when I just wanted to drink
in the day you sat beside me, not touching me because you knew I was driven
in my attempts to push you out of sight out of mind but you forced me to always think
about your green eyes. On any given day I could lose myself in

the moment, forget why we were here in the first place. There was a time when you were a habit
of convincing me that love existed in your tender brow. I would spend days drinking you in without thinking, but I drove myself off the edge leaving that cigarette on your dash still smoking.