loving him was
morning cigarette burns against your thighs softened by rough kisses, mismatched into the curve of your hips like an ancient statue, as if all he ever saw you as was broken and forgotten.
loving him was
empty love letters chained to your ankles, dragging you down with bittersweet words whenever you pulled yourself back up again only to fall into his embrace.
loving him was
drunk late night kisses knowing he does not love you, kisses inconsistent in the way they’d land on your lips like all he ever wanted to do was wash the poison out of his mouth and into your bloodstream.
loving him was
hands hanging against your ribs holding you in place while his eyes danced around your skin like a wandering ghost, never settling into the irises of your eyes like he always knew he was going to leave you.
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