Poetry

In my eyes, you were a masterpiece. I was just a work in progress.

Blue green eyes and blue green veins are all the same when you're in love. Every single part of someone blends into a colorful masterpiece that's taken so long to piece together in your own mind. When I met you, I was blind to the world and the only thing that taught me the ways of the universe were those nights that you fell asleep talking about her. You always had a cigarette between your index finger and thumb, and you always took drags like your life depended on it. My lungs would fill up with secondhand smoke and you'd just laugh when I coughed. I had asthma.
I still remember the time you sent me a video of you with bloodshot eyes and a broken smile, telling me that things hadn't worked out, and it was then that a sickening tidal wave of hope crashed around me. I didn't want to be happy. You took the innocence out of my heart and put it into my eyes, as they changed from brown to hazel and back again. Your eyes were like a cool winter morning, crisp like fresh snow on the ground. It was a few months later that I started painting my lungs black in your presence and you looked so proud that I had turned to the dark side. The money I usually spent on beanies and vans was now spent on bruises and needles.
I always have a pack of cigarettes with me now, in case you decide that you get sick of summer nights and golden hair. In case you fall out of love and come back with the videos and smoggy rooms. I keep it just in case, and God, that reminder is enough for me to leave teardrops in the dirty snow you left.