Rose.

She loved cocaine more than she could ever love me.

She would leave in the evening and come home in the wee hours of the morning.

I could've left her, I should've left her.

But I didn't.

Because there was something about her, she was beautiful, she was lovely, she had a smile that could make even the most saddest person in all of California happy. She was great company, too, and she was flawed, but all the more to love.

Her name was Rose, she was twenty two, her hair was dyed red and she had bright blue eyes, she did cocaine, she was the love of my life, and she died at twenty three.

The six years I spent with her I'd call eternity, and I wanted to be with her forever.

// aye.