Eunoia.

Prologue: The now

"You're weird," he said as he firmly traced his fingers around my cheek, "You're fucking strange, yet I can't help but love it."

We sat in silence and listened to the gushing sound of the trees and the heartbeat of the 2am city life. I always found a guilty satisfaction in the quiet moments, they allowed me to ponder. Walt hated them.

Walt wasn't a thinker, he was a talker. Walt wasn't a lot of things, and that made him different. He was him, I was me, and our newfound love was poetic.

I spoke to you like poetry
Articulating every feeling;
Like words

My eyes;
Were similes,
Comparing your love to mine

Yours;
Were indescribable metaphors
But always so direct

But like a climax,
Metaphors and similes
Create a storm

My smile
Was irony;
Unfathomable

Yours
Was of rhymes;
Witty.

My voice,
Was an unexplainable paradox -
Contradiction was my forte

But yours,
Was an endless stream of euphemisms
It made everything less frightening
and the songs, way sweeter

We were quite the oxymoron,
Not necessarily the same thing,
But it still made sense

But in the end:
You,
Were a poet,
You brought meaning to the poem
And Me?
I was the poem.