Without Colour

Him.

He is tall.
He has dark brown hair, brown eyes, black glasses to frame them...
His lips are full.

He is the definition of imperfect.
Hair is never in place, beard scraggly and tasseled.
With out his glasses he can't see more than a few feet in front of him.
His bottom teeth are crooked. Not one in its proper placing and he has blemishes on his cheeks, freckles and moles on his body.
He says words that have no right leaving the mind, and locks his brilliance behind his eyes as if he knows no one else will truly care.
He thinks that with his crooked grin and perfectly manipulated words he can keep up the facade that everything is fine.
He.. is wrong.

I saw him.
As broken, as afraid, as lost, as he kept himself hidden- from the very first look- I. Saw. Him.
And my heart aches, for I understood the pain of not belonging.
I understood the need for a liquid poison to take my memories as I fade into a blackness.
I understood- Him.
And as unfixable as I am alone, I poured my effort into fixing him.
And in the instant he noticed me, I managed to pick up my broken pieces.
And he clings to me, and I to him, like a forbidden fruit, he's poison- but it feels sweet.
It's addicting in its taste as the word rolls off my lips, and chilling as the sound slips from his thoughts into sound waves down my spine-
And I am in love.