i once loved a man with black circles around his eyes. blue eyes. like ice floating on unfrozen white water. the sort that tends to bend light and warps it into spheres and glares and fuzzy specks of dust. his fingers were sooty, his nose would bleed. but the things he said were beautiful when he found the strength or motive to move his lips. he always forgot to wash his clothes. i was told i was condemning myself to loving a dead man. i was told that no one should live for the buried.
he's just sick.
he's just sick.
but only i was sick for loving him.
