Recovery

Addicted

I knew I was in love ever since the first time I looked into his melancholic eyes that were silently crying for the desires of his heart. The caterwaul of his voice drowned behind calm tones, disguised as assent. He had words on the tip of his tongue, battling to be released from the gates of those soft lips that I once called home. He was the comfort of in my life; the wonder I wished to see, the heart break that tore me apart as though my soul was sucked out of me from beneath every vein, every artery inside me. I felt my love for him inside my bones, and when that all went away it felt as though my joints collapsed and my legs failed to keep me up. He was the inspiration to see the beauty in all things dark, in all things neglected. His arms were my castle and I was the royal that never wanted to leave those walls that I called mine. And when I did, it was preternatural. He's gone now, but the nostalgia of the smell of his hair and the touch of his fingertips, to this day, send chills from the back of my neck to the tip of my spine. He was my heroin, he was my drug I endure: mourning his loss, but I'm still addicted.